Some of my earliest memories are of homesickness. I was a quirky child who never spent a night at summer camp and dreaded sleepovers. My older sister let me room with her my first two years of college (which helped, a lot!) and my parents never pushed (for which I’m eternally grateful). I spent my childhood dreaming of being Louisa May Alcott, not because I thought I’d be a writer, but because I adored the idea of spending my days squirreled away in my own little garret, upstairs in my family’s home.

While I was growing up, my family moved a number of times – Miami, Cincinnati, Houston, Atlanta – before settling in southern Illinois. And while I’ll admit to feeling wistful when I see pics from some of those homes, my memories of homesickness have always been more about people than places. I suppose that’s why the Welsh word hiraeth resonates so deeply with both the little Leah who never wanted to leave home and the grown Leah who never wanted a divorce. It’s the best way I’ve found to describe this sense of longing I live with.

I spent Thanksgiving without my boys this year. I traveled to see my parents and my boys stayed behind to work on end of term papers and prepare for final exams. As much as I missed them, it gave me a chance to go and be just a daughter again, which I liked, but which also uncorked all kinds of nostalgia. Choices I made, roads not taken, homes I built inside people who would not stay. Next came the minefield of memories related to my marriage, which was another kind of home, one I carefully curated and crafted with every good thing in me, only to find it never existed.

Hiraeth, my friends.

I’m well aware many who read this post will either scratch their heads or be tempted to send me a well meaning platitude. If you can’t relate, please just be grateful. But for the few who can, perhaps, like me, you’ll take solace in at least having a word for it now.