Between Goodbyes and Hellos : The Psychology of the Two Homes Problem
Every time I start packing my suitcase, a wave of emotions crashes over me and leaves me with a heavy heart. Walking down the boarding gate always gives me jitters- it doesn’t matter whether I’m flying back to the city I grew up in or the city that embraced me. That strange mix of excitement and sadness makes me feel like I’m gaining and losing something at the same time.
That’s the thing about having more than one home: you’re always leaving, even when you’re not. Each trip feels like rediscovering a version of myself that I haven’t lived with, in a while. When I flew back to India almost a year later, I felt it intensely- sadness as I left seattle and a rush of joy the moment I smelled the monsoon rain in my hometown.
When “Home” becomes Plural
At 14 I thought home was just one place, somewhere I grew up, a city, a foundation that gave me everything I was. But now at 19 I’ve learnt it’s a little complicated
Home isn’t just a house or a pin on the map. It’s people who ground me, routines that comfort me and the emotions that tie them all together. Each home gives me something I carry forward, whether I’m conscious of it or not.
Psychologists call this state of being in- between places a “liminal space”. Airports, road trips, train rides- are all thresholds. That feeling of not being fully here, not there yet, just suspended in transition. And psychology tells us that uncertainty magnifies emotions. The brain craves stability, the heart craves comfort but travel forces us to face the fluidity of belonging once “home” becomes plural.
Do I have Attachment Issues?
Attachment Theory developed by John Bowlby, described how humans form deep emotional bonds in childhood- bonds that provide security, comfort and stability. But the attachment doesn’t stop there. As we grow, we continue to form attachments not only to people, but also to places, routines and even objects.
When I leave home, whether it was my parents house at 17, my college dorm at 18 and my first big girl apartment at 19, the brain interprets that departure as a rupture in those bonds. That's why airport goodbyes feel heavier than expected, why returning to one home makes you miss the other. The separation may be temporary but the attachment system treats it as a loss.
And just like with relationships, the stronger the bond, the harder the goodbye. But I’ve started reframing that ache. It hurts to leave because I’ve built something worth leaving — and something worth coming back to.
The Two Homes problem and our mental health.
There's a quiet ache living in between homes, but also a psychological richness in it. Having two or more homes means that you’ve built multiple places of belonging- and belonging is central to mental health. Maslow placed it right after safety and right before esteem for a reason: without it, everything else feels shaky.
But belonging comes with a paradox: the more places you feel rooted, the more you’ll feel the tug of absence. For students and anyone who splits life across places, this often shows up as a constant, low-level homesickness. Not because they don’t belong anywhere, but because they belong to too many places at once.
And sometimes, that in-betweenness bleeds into imposter syndrome. You feel too local in one place, too foreign in another. Too grown-up in one context, still someone’s child in another. It makes you question whether you truly fit anywhere — when in reality, being able to belong in more than one world is adaptability, not fraudulence.
Making Peace With the In-Between
What I’ve learned is that the ache of leaving never fully disappears — but it can soften. For me, that means:
Redefining “home” as people, not geography : A FaceTime call can sometimes feel more grounding than a familiar street.
Allowing grief and gratitude to coexist : It hurts to leave, but it hurts because there’s something worth missing.
Leaning into liminality : Instead of resisting the “in-between,” I’ve started treating airports like reflection spaces. Journal at the gate, read something I never make time for, or just let myself feel without distraction.
Final Thoughts
Leaving one home to return to another will always carry a sting. But maybe that sting is proof of something beautiful: that we are capable of building belonging in more than one place.
The two homes problem is really the many homes privilege. And while it can create moments of sadness or uncertainty, it also means your sense of home isn’t fragile. It’s layered, resilient, and bigger than a single pin on a map. Mental health isn’t just about diagnoses or treatment — it’s also about learning to sit with the small griefs of goodbye, the uncertainty of liminal spaces, and the messy privilege of having more than one place where you belong.
Because in the end, to leave is to hurt. To return is to heal. And to belong is to hold both at once.
References
Holmes, J. (1993). John Bowlby and Attachment Theory (Second edition., pp. xi–xi). Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9780203136805
Maslow, A. H. (1943). A theory of human motivation. Psychological Review, 50(4), 370–396. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0054346
Clance, P. R., & Imes, S. A. (1978). The imposter phenomenon in high achieving women: Dynamics and therapeutic intervention. Psychotherapy (Chicago, Ill.), 15(3), 241–247. https://doi.org/10.1037/h0086006
Overthinking on Repeat : The Psychology behind Generalized Anxiety Disorder
Most mornings, I wake up thinking about the email I still haven’t sent, whether my friend’s “okay” last night actually meant “not okay,” what my future will look like, and yes… breakfast. My brain doesn’t exactly ease into the day — it skips the warm-up and goes straight into Olympic-level overthinking.
For the longest time, I thought this was just me being “a worrier” or “someone who thinks too much.” But there’s a difference between having a busy mind and living with a brain that’s constantly scanning for threats. That difference has a name: Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD).
What GAD Really Is (and Isn’t)
GAD isn’t about one specific fear — it’s about all the fears, big and small, setting up camp in your head rent-free. The American Psychological Association defines it as excessive anxiety and worry, more days than not, for at least six months.
But here’s what that looks like in real life: it’s like having a smoke alarm that goes off every time you make toast. You know nothing’s on fire, but the alarm still blares, and you can’t just unplug it.
And it’s not just in your thoughts — anxiety has a way of showing up in your body, too. Restlessness. Tight shoulders. Headaches. Stomach issues. Fatigue that feels unfair for how little you “did.” It’s your brain’s way of reminding you it’s on edge, even when you’d really like it to take a day off.
One of the hardest parts is that GAD often disguises itself as “being prepared.” Re-reading a text three times before sending it. Playing out scenarios in your head “just in case.” Making backup plans for your backup plans. It can look like productivity — but when it never ends, it’s not preparedness, it’s anxiety taking the wheel.
The Psychology Behind the “What If” Loop
In The Anxiety Toolkit, psychologist Dr. Alice Boyes explains that anxiety is your brain’s safety system in overdrive. The amygdala — your internal alarm system — is like an overprotective friend who thinks it’s helping by pointing out every possible danger, no matter how small.
The problem? It can’t always tell the difference between “I left the stove on” and “my professor used a period instead of an exclamation mark in their email.”
Normally, the prefrontal cortex — the part of your brain responsible for logic and reasoning — steps in to fact-check these alarms. But in GAD, that communication doesn’t always run smoothly. The amygdala screams, the prefrontal cortex lags behind, and suddenly you’re replaying a conversation from three days ago like it’s a cold case file.
This is why GAD feels so exhausting. Your brain is running constant simulations of future disasters, while your body is carrying the physical tension of preparing for them — even if nothing actually happens.
Making Peace With an Overactive Mind
Here’s the thing: the goal isn’t to eliminate anxiety altogether (spoiler: impossible). Anxiety, at its core, is protective. But with GAD, it’s like having a bodyguard who thinks every passing shadow is a threat. The task isn’t firing the bodyguard — it’s teaching them to relax.
For me, that’s meant experimenting with ways to work with my brain instead of constantly fighting it:
Grounding exercises — pulling myself into the present by focusing on what I can see, hear, or feel. Even something simple like noticing the feeling of my feet on the ground can interrupt the spiral.
Scheduled worry time — giving my brain permission to spiral, but on a set timer, so it doesn’t hijack the whole day. Weirdly, knowing I have a “worry appointment” later makes it easier to let go in the moment.
Leaning into uncertainty — resisting the urge to text three friends for reassurance and instead letting myself sit with the discomfort of not knowing. Spoiler: the world didn’t fall apart.
Reframing self-talk — swapping “Why can’t I just chill?” for “Okay, my brain is trying to protect me. How can I help it feel safe?”
None of these strategies are magic fixes. But they’re ways of turning the volume down from “blaring static” to “background noise” — and that difference is huge.
Why Understanding GAD Matters
When I first learned the psychology behind GAD, it didn’t cure my anxiety, but it gave me a new lens. I stopped seeing it as a personal flaw and started seeing it as a brain function that’s just a little too committed.
And knowing that changes how I talk to myself. It’s not “Why can’t I just chill?” — it’s “Okay, my brain is trying to protect me. How can I help it feel safe?”
If you’re living in “what if” mode, you’re not broken. You’re human. And with the right tools, you can teach your brain that not every toast alarm means there’s a fire.
Reference
Peter Stanley. (2015). [Rev. of The anxiety toolkit: Strategies for fine-tuning your mind and moving past your stuck points [Book Review]]. Aotearoa New Zealand Social Work, 27(3), 87–89.
Lost, But Learning: Finding the direction in the detours
When I was 15, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. My plan felt solid, my path was clear and I was convinced that the sooner I “figured it out,” the smoother everything would be. Fast-forward to 19, and I’m in a completely different place — literally and figuratively. My career goals have shifted, my vision for the future has changed, and some days, I feel like I’m walking through fog without a map.
And honestly? It’s uncomfortable. We’re told that “being ready” is a prerequisite for success — that if we just plan enough, prepare enough, and make all the “right” moves, the path will unfold neatly in front of us. But life doesn’t work like that. Plans change. Priorities shift. And sometimes, the thing you thought you were meant to do at 15 no longer fits who you are at 19.
Why We Crave a Plan
Psychologically, humans are wired to want certainty. Research on intolerance of uncertainty shows that our brains see unpredictability as a potential threat, triggering stress responses even when nothing bad has happened yet. Having a plan feels safe because it gives our minds something concrete to hold onto — a way to believe we’re in control.
In Erik Erikson’s stages of psychosocial development, early adulthood is all about identity — trying on different roles, discovering your values, and figuring out where you fit. The catch? This process is messy, nonlinear, and often full of detours.
The Myth of Being “Ready”
Here’s the truth I’m learning: readiness isn’t a moment you arrive at — it’s something you build along the way. I used to think that once I had enough experience, clarity, or confidence, then I’d feel ready to take the next step. But more often than not, it’s the other way around. You start, you stumble, and somewhere in the middle of figuring it out, you realize you’re more capable than you thought.
Waiting until everything feels certain might mean you never start at all.
Letting Yourself Pivot
Changing your mind isn’t failing — it’s evolving. The version of me who made those big plans at 15 didn’t have the experiences, perspective, or growth I’ve had since. Of course my direction has changed. That’s what growth looks like.
I’ve learned to see each shift not as “starting over” but as adding layers to who I’m becoming. Every detour has taught me something I couldn’t have learned if I’d stuck to the original map.
If You’re Feeling Lost Right Now
You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re not the only one.
Your 20s (and honestly, your whole life) will be full of unexpected turns. And while not knowing can feel scary, it also means you’re open to possibilities you haven’t discovered yet.
Instead of asking “When will I have it all figured out?”, I’m starting to ask:
What can I learn from where I am right now?
What’s the smallest next step I can take?
How can I make peace with not having the full picture yet?
Because being “lost” isn’t a permanent state — it’s just a snapshot in time. And if you’re still learning, you’re still moving forward.
Final Thought
Life isn’t a straight line — it’s more like a messy, beautiful scribble. The plans you made at 15 were right for who you were then. The shifts you make now are right for who you are today. And one day, you’ll look back and realize every detour was leading you somewhere important.
Reference
Erikson, E. H. (1968). Identity: Youth and Crisis. 1968. Journal of Extension, 6(4).