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When does a place you reside become your home? When does it cease to hold claim to a piece of your heart after you have moved away?

We lived in Orlando, Florida for five years. We have been gone for nearly nine. Many of our close friends from this time have also departed. By all accounts, this place should no longer have a claim on my soul.

But walking by Lake Ebola, passing the Orlando Public Library, breathing in the air thick with life, basking under the bright blue sky, I feel as though I have never left.

So much happened to our family during our short stint in Florida. Daniel was born. Annika started kindergarten. Will and I each turned 30, and each graduated with our PhDs. Our existing life narrative was smashed into tiny pieces and rebuilt into something stronger.

When I visit Orlando, my chest squeezes and my throat tightens. Because a part of me will always love this town. And a part of me mourns what we have lost. For even if we were to move back now, we are different people, in a different era. The mourning space in my soul is wistful over this bygone season - which we can never repeat.

I love you, Orlando. I love that you created the person I am today, the family we are now. And leaving this kind of home, again and again, is always bittersweet.