Rob and I, June 22, 2019, my mom’s 70th birthday — the first time I saw him in ten years.

I kept looking for evidence that my life had changed with his passing. I thought that maybe my phone would blow up with family group messages or we would rush to be with each other. I thought we would all be on the next flight out. But none of that happened. Instead, I still answered emails and took meetings. I prepared for a long trip out of the country. I read and I slept. My life went on and I couldn’t understand why.

I had always measured the strength of relationships on a spectrum of emotional intensity—hatred to love. But if the emotional intensity isn’t there, how would I know that I loved someone?

With every relationship I’ve been in, I started with hope. I felt hope that it would feel different than the one before it and the one before that. Hope that this one would hurt if I lost them. And each time, I looked inward for something that told me I had changed—that I was willing to give up something important for my partner. A trip, being right in an argument, saying yes when I really meant no. And each time when I realized that the relationship wasn’t any different than the one that came before it, I didn’t just feel empty. I felt like I was pretending.

After my brother’s passing, I was expecting to feel the type of loss that people would notice when they were around me. The one that has me breaking down in the airport, unable to control my sobs as I begged the desk agent to get me a seat on the next flight. The kind I expected to feel when my relationships ended. Walking around with red, swollen eyes or withdrawing from activities I once enjoyed. The kind of loss that is on display which allows observers to understand what they are seeing. They know how to support us—calling and texting, reminiscing and sharing stories and memories. But none of that came. Not after the relationships ended. Not after my brother’s passing.

What happens when loss doesn’t show itself? Our daily routines continue without interruption as if nothing happened. The intense emotions we expect to feel and that others expect to see are instead flat. We mischaracterize that flatness as not loving. In that flatness, time passes and loss is forgotten.

When I returned from my trip the month after my brother passed, I picked up right where I left off. At the office, nobody asked me how I was doing. I went back to answering emails and attending meetings. Too much time had passed since my boss first heard the news that nobody sent flowers. At home, the kids and I planned for the upcoming holiday. The dog went to the vet. I continued to prepare for the launch of my book. The family thread dwindled from eight to four people. And I slept fine.

After my brother died and I still hadn’t cried, the question of how I knew that I loved someone surfaced for me again. And now, with Valentine’s Day on the horizon, I sit here wondering if I have ever loved, and if I haven’t, have I ever felt loss?

The question doesn’t stay internal long. People are taught to look for visual cues after loss. When there are no cues, the loss is shouldered quietly. There are no invitations to talk. Doors are closed but no one asks why. Other times life goes on after the loss, as if it never happened. At work, meetings persist and time off doesn’t get scheduled. Over time, the friendly hellos end because they are met with silence. When people eventually find out, they’ll tell me how strong I was.

With Valentine’s Day quickly approaching, it is easy to see love. The chocolates and stuffed animals grace the aisles at every store we walk into. Kids pass out candy hearts and little cards at school. On a day like Valentine’s Day, the grief of those that have loved and lost someone is visible. And we support them in all the ways we’ve been taught to support those that we love.

But what happens if you’ve lost someone that you’re not sure that you love? Like with my brother. The check-ins at work stopped a long time ago. My family group thread sits idle. Instead, one off messages in support of our favorite football team ping. Yet the loss was never reconciled. It sits deeply inside me waiting for the day when I will let it rise to the surface and feel it.

There are still no tears. There is just emptiness.

I lay awake in bed most nights, replaying and rehearsing hard and unpleasant conversations in my head, cataloguing my points and chastising myself when I forget them. I wonder, Did the person I argued with understand why I was upset? Could I convince them that I was right? The late-night conversations progress much like the writing of this essay–me talking to the blank apartment walls, choosing and changing words faster than they could be absorbed into my brain and converted into words on paper, constructing the responses that I wanted to hear, and not the ones that I heard. Some nights I could forestall the one-sided conversations by making decisions, quickly—book a flight, schedule a tour, buy something—done.

Quick decision-making is movement. The decisions fill the space where the internal dialogue lives. Book a trip instead of sitting with the email that carries bad news. The confirmation appears on the screen. The email goes quiet.

So that’s how I came to be riding a motorbike across West Africa—through a random Facebook post and a late-night search for a flight. The trip details: eight days and three countries with more potholes than a highway after winter. And even though I had never driven a motorbike before, I mentally ticked off the reasons it was okay: I could ride a bike and I had taught my kids how to drive.

The first morning on the motorbike, I struggled with the mechanics of riding. The engine revved, the bike jerked but I puttered along building confidence as the miles of grassland passed us by. Later that morning, our group of ten came upon a small village, the road filled with people, carts, and animals. Riding at the back of the group, I mimicked the riders in front of me, noticing as they dropped their foot to the ground as they turned right. But my bike didn’t slow down like theirs had, and soon I found myself on the heels of the rider in front of me. I furiously started stomping the back brake, but the bike started sliding in the opposite direction that I wanted to go. The next thing I knew, as I missed the turn, I was looking right into the eyes of an old man pushing a cart full of produce.

After getting back on the road, I caught up to the group and began pushing the bike to 40 miles per hour. I allowed my mind to wander as the warm breeze cooled my sunburned arms. I stole glances at the passing countryside, taking in the women carrying children on their backs and baskets on their heads.

The riding was going well, that is until we came to a left-hand turn. What happened next unfolded slowly in front of my eyes, even as the bike continued to speed towards the next intersection. Realizing I wasn’t slowing down quickly enough, I looked to my right to see if I could safely make the turn. That’s when I saw it. A white van coming straight at me. I quickly looked to my left, and seeing an empty lane, I pulled the handlebars left. In my mind, I was jerking the bike all over the road, and panic started to settle in. As I moved back into the right lane, my hands turned up the accelerator, as I tried to create space between my bike and the white van.

This time there was no swearing. I was simply praying to God to bring me safely home to the kids. Even though I had gotten the bike up to 40 miles per hour, this time, shaken to my core, I couldn’t go more than 30. I could feel my hands shaking on the handlebars, gripping it so tight that the sweat pooled in my palms. For the first time, I asked myself, what are you doing? I would never ride a motorcycle at home. Why did I think it was acceptable to ride one here?

Our tour leader realized I was struggling. He kept asking if I was comfortable driving. At that moment, I kept worrying about what they would do with the extra bike. I knew I would have to make a decision. I delayed saying yes to him because I kept thinking it would click and my feet would remember the brakes. The coordination of driving a car would translate to the motorbike. By mid-afternoon, as we were ready for a fuel stop, we arrived at a very busy city. The streets were packed with bikes and people and dogs running loose. With all the activity, I couldn’t see where the group had gone. I only knew to pull to the curb. By the time I clumsily slowed the bike, the tour leader was at my side, taking over for me. As I walked to the group, I heard myself ask the tour leader, “Can you find someone to drive the bike?”

As the trip progressed, I couldn’t help but wish I was driving the bike through the sand and water. But every time I thought about it, my heart would start racing and my palms would become sweaty, as if my body was telling me, it was time to quit.

Later, recounting my story to my brother, I thought about my unfinished will. One that in the wake of another’s recent passing, I had promised to finish before leaving. Quitting to stay alive seemed like a good trade-off.

Last weekend I was in Chicago. Sitting on the couch in the Airbnb, I fumbled through streaming apps trying to find the Bills game. A weak Wi-Fi signal hampering my efforts. The outcome—important to playoff seeding.

As I kept refreshing the Xfinity app, the kids asked me why didn’t I just go somewhere to watch? I heard myself start to tell them I hadn’t showered or I didn’t sleep well. If they looked at me closely, they might have seen the evidence. But I stopped and just shrugged. I couldn’t explain to them something that I didn’t quite understand myself. Thankfully, the Wi-Fi connected, and the game came onto the screen, a response no longer needed.

Later that same night, alone with the dog and cat, I went back to the kids’ question, and asked myself, why didn’t I go out for the game? I thought about the games I’ve watched at the pizza place near my new apartment in DC. The one I stumbled upon during a Thursday night football game at the start of the season.

The pizza place? Andy’s Pizza, and I’ve become a regular this season. Early game—no problem—coffee, a quick shower and head out. For the late afternoon game, I do chores too. Some Sundays, I throw on my Josh Allen jersey and head out for the pre-game. Others, I walk in at kick-off, my status in the Bills Mafia a secret.

Sundays weren’t always like this. Groceries needed replenishing and uniforms had to be washed. Family and friends iMessages left on read. The DVR full of shows that I hadn’t watched yet. More times than I want to admit, I left my phone on silent, ghosting friends or dates. I couldn’t get away from the responsibilities of parenting so I would begrudgingly shower, counting the minutes until I could be laying on the couch again. I had to restore depleted energy from the week before while reserving energy for the week ahead. Sundays were recovery from being mom, worker, friend, no one and someone all at the same time.

Back to Andy’s. The first time I went to Andy’s for Sunday football, I left my jersey at home, opting for a Bills t-shirt instead. I walked in and found a seat at the far end of the bar, waiting patiently for the bartender to notice me. While I waited, my fingers fiddled with an empty straw wrapper left from another guest. After I ordered, I brought out my Kindle. During active plays, my eyes stayed fixated on the screen. But during commercials and half-time, my trusty electronic friend masked my awkwardness at sitting alone.

By late fall, I had been going to Andy’s for several weeks. I still peruse the menu even though I know what I want: a slice of pizza and a beer. Some weeks, the bar is empty, and I choose a stool right in the middle. My eyes dart between the four big screens screwed on the wall. Each one playing a different game. Other weeks, I squeeze in wherever I can find an open spot. Every week, strangers become friends. High fiving when our teams make a big play. Criticizing mistakes. Sitting among strangers, it’s easy to be an expert.

One Sunday last month, Andy’s was empty when I arrived and I chose a seat at the bar. I was wearing my Josh Allen jersey, a slice of pizza ordered, and my favorite beer placed before me before I even had time to take off my jacket and look around. I noticed a table behind me filling in, fans supporting the Bills and their opponent. After exchanging a quiet hello, I turned back to the game. Fans watching other games filled in the tables and quiet conversations began to fill the air.

And that’s when it happened. About halfway through the game, the Bills got an interception. My fists pounded the bar and I shouted out, “YES!” Quickly, my head snapped around, my cheeks reddened, and I started to apologize. I searched their faces for any indication of judgment. Nothing. They were laughing among themselves, oblivious to me. I turned toward the other end of the bar: had my outburst been in my head? I turned back in my seat, my eyebrows creased and my head tilted, a question lingering on the tip of my tongue. But before I could fully form it, I was drawn back to the TV by the announcers.

This happened before on a small island in the Gulf of Thailand. The morning, I arrived, my Facebook feed was full of Bills Mafia posts, reminding me that it was almost game time. I found a restaurant for breakfast and set up my phone to stream the game. I sat quietly sipping a Bloody Mary and eating my eggs. Between bites, I leaned in close to the small screen, trying to read the closed captioning. Every few minutes, I would hit the table or throw my hands in the air, and then quickly look around, half expecting all eyes on this crazed American. But each time I looked around the restaurant, all I could see were servers refilling water and tables being cleaned. And each time, I would take a bite of my food and resume watching the game.

As I was leaving Andy’s last month, I said to the bartender, “I won’t be back for a few weeks.” She reached out to me with her arms. Surprised, I tentatively opened myself up to receive her hug. I hugged her back. My shoulders stiff, my hands not quite meeting each other on her back. After she let me go, I didn’t know if she could feel my hesitation, so I offered a quick goodbye and hurried out.

I walked back to my apartment that night, my head tucked deep into my coat, shielding myself from the cold wind, and I thought to myself, she knows me. She looks for the guest that cheers for the Bills.

Pulled out of my thoughts back in the Airbnb, I had to ask myself, did I have valid reasons or was I simply making excuses when I didn’t go out for games? I thought about all the years I lived in Chicago and that I had never gone to a bar to watch a game. But in DC, I developed a pattern. What was I avoiding in Chicago—groups of people high-fiving each other, and my hand hanging alone in the air?

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My luggage was in Paris. I was in Dakar.

The horn buzzed loudly and the hum of the baggage carousel started. The conveyor belt lurched forward and the suitcases—colorful sets, plain black ones, large boxes—began passing through the black rubber flaps. I stood among the crowd, patiently looking for my small gray and brown suitcase. The one I carried past the check-in desk back in Washington DC. The one I asked the desk agent to gate check for me.

I turned on my phone, keeping one eye turned toward the conveyor belt. I opened Outlook—3 a.m. back home—nothing to read. I started aimlessly scrolling videos. I looked up as a bag like mine passed by. Then I saw the look on another passenger’s face—her lips turned upward and eyes brighter—nope, not mine

As I waited, I shifted my weight one leg to the other, back and forth, back and forth, seemingly timed with the rhythm of some childhood jingle. The suitcases and boxes had thinned, the crowd dispersing as people found their bags.

After the crowd dispersed, I began to look earnestly for someone, anyone who could help me. Finding no one nearby, my eyes continued to scan the baggage area and finally settled on the service office. I hefted my backpack on my shoulders, picked up my tote, and began walking in the direction of the office. As I walked, I was already thinking: what do I have on me and what will I need? I ran through a mental inventory of the essentials. Change of clothes, check. Toothbrush and toothpaste, check. And then, helmet. I exhaled my breath and said a silent prayer, thank God, my trip won’t be a bust. Behind the large customer service window were desks piled high with papers, and groups of workers chatting amongst themselves.

After filing my claim, I glanced at the paper the clerk handed me, stuffed it into my shoulder bag, and walked through customs. A moment of oddness passed through me as I set my backpack and shoulder bag on the x-ray machine. Realizing I was a little late getting out to the waiting area, I hurriedly grabbed my bags from the machine and checked my phone for my driver’s location. As I walked out of the airport hall, I was taken back three years to another airport hall, this one in Iceland, after my first transatlantic flight.

The overnight flight landed in Reykjavík as the sun rose. Still drowsy from no sleep, I slowly gathered my belongings and followed the crush of people off the plane. I followed them through the long hallways on the way to passport control, confident where they were taking me. As the immigration officer stamped my passport, I gave myself a pat on the back, and thought to myself, this isn’t so hard.

But just as quickly as the spring in my step became more noticeable, it was gone. The crowd turned toward baggage claim. I abruptly stopped and remembered I hadn’t checked bags. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going and next thing I knew, I was walking in circles. They weren’t metaphorical circles. They were literal circles around the airport. With each pass, I looked toward the customer service desk, hoping to see someone sitting there so they could tell me where to go. Nope, no one. Out the doors into the cool Icelandic air, looking for some telltale sign of my prearranged shuttle. Nothing there either. I looked at my watch, wondering when the customer service rep would be back. A large growl reminded me I hadn’t eaten since dinner, hours before.

I checked the overhead signs, trying to get oriented. But my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing, and I felt a sense of unease begin to rise up in me. After walking in circles for thirty minutes, I couldn’t even find my bus.

The longer I walked and the more steps I retraced, the clammier my hands got. My shoulders ached from carrying two backpacks. Asking myself, why did I think it was a good idea to carry backpacks instead of a suitcase. I knew why, I wanted to look like a seasoned traveler. The one who belongs on tour buses seeing volcanoes and geysers that shoot hundreds of feet into the air. The one who can find their bus or knows how to use their phone.

But that persona was about to come crashing down as my internal dialogue kicked into overdrive. Tracy, you have no business traveling to another country, let alone one on the other side of the ocean. Focus Tracy, you need to catch that bus, you have a tour scheduled. You can do this. I was willing to tell myself anything that would ensure I got on that bus.

A year later, I would find myself roaming another airport—this time in Bangkok.

This time I had dozens of stamps in my passport. I walked through the terminal, occasionally checking the signs to be sure I was still headed in the right direction. I quickly passed through immigration and grabbed my bags from the carousel.

Outside baggage claim, the airport was complete chaos. People were pushed elbow to elbow. Trolleys packed high with bags. I carefully navigated to the meeting point. I knew what I was looking for, Section B2. The email said: your name will be on a sign. As I entered the main hall, I could see hundreds of placards with names on them. Voices shouted out, “Taxi, taxi,” competing with the hum of the air conditioning and the overhead PA system.

I continued to walk along the narrow aisle, sidestepping small children and slow walkers, rolling my suitcases in front of me, scanning the signs for my name. But I didn’t see my name. I was tired and frustrated, and every time I walked past the automatic doors, the hot, humid air assaulted my skin. I pulled out my phone and looked for the familiar red circle, telling me I had a message. Nothing. I switched the Wi-Fi off and then on again. Maybe my phone hadn’t gotten the signal yet. I sent a message. I had to decide: wait where I was for the ping of a returned message or keep looking? I checked the time and looked again for the large B2 sign and slowly took in the sights and sounds of the great hall I was in. I don’t remember how it resolved but I do know that the panic that I felt in Iceland never got its energy.

Back in Dakar, as I walked out of the airport hall, toward my driver, I carried only my backpack and shoulder bag. He asked me, “Where are the rest of your bags?” I shrugged my shoulders, and said, “Looks like they were left behind in New York and are currently in Paris.”

In the car, I opened the airline app and sent a message, “Hello, when should I expect my bags in Dakar?” And then I closed my eyes.

After a week of winding my way from DC to Oxford to Chicago and then flying back east again, I’ve had hours of quiet in cars and airports—the kind of hours that make you sit with the questions you’ve been avoiding. One of them: What is Home?

Last week, we checked into the Airbnb I rented in the Chicago suburbs. Nothing was remarkable about the place—just a clean rental with neutral walls and a couch that has certainly hosted many families before ours. And yet, as I walked from room to room, I felt an unexpected ache rise up in me. Not sadness, exactly—something more like recognition. A quiet reminder of how much has changed in one year.

Since this time last December, I changed jobs, sold my house, and moved east to Washington, DC. I traveled through Cambodia and Laos, celebrated Tet with Minh and her family, wandered the streets of Paris and the castle ruins of Wales. I wrote a book. I began the next one. And somewhere in the middle of all of that movement, I started imagining where I might go from here.

I wouldn’t trade any of it—the job, the move, the passports filling up with stamps, the late-night notes that turned into chapters. But change, even the kind we choose, has a way of brushing up against the more fragile parts of us.

And nothing made that clearer than standing in a holiday season without the very things that once defined it for me.

For nearly two decades, Christmas meant unpacking the same boxes: the tree ornaments I collected one by one, the snow globes and school treasures the kids brought home, the embroidered towels we never actually used, the reindeers and lighted trees for the yard that made our house glow during the long Midwest nights. These rhythms were anchors—small rituals that said, You live here. This is your home. You belong here.

But this year, our Airbnb is devoid of any memories. The walls are bare. The fridge holds nothing but frozen meals and coffee creamer. The trash fills quickly with takeout containers. It is a place to stay, not a place that knows us.

And in that absence, I felt a flicker of fear:
What if I’m losing my sense of home altogether?

Is home a physical structure—the address we return to each night?
Is it the place filled with our belongings, where we drop our bags and finally exhale?
Is it where our children are, or where they return to us?
Or is home something far less visible—a memory map we carry inside, shaped by every room, every person, every season that has ever held us?

These questions followed me all the way from Chicago back to DC, where a tiny tabletop Christmas tree (purchased on a whim from Target) now sits in the corner of my apartment. It’s the smallest tree I’ve ever owned, barely two feet tall, nothing more than a strand of lights wrapped around a miniature frame with a few generic ornaments hanging from it.

And yet, in the quiet of the evening, when the lights reflect softly on the wall, I feel something familiar. Not the old definition of home—the one rooted in stability and sameness—but a new one, made of movement and reinvention and the willingness to let life shift without losing myself in the process.

Maybe home isn’t where we settle.
Maybe home is what evolves with us.
Maybe it’s the part of ourselves that stays steady when everything else changes.

I’m not sure I’ll ever arrive at a final answer. But for now, I’m learning to see home not as a fixed point, but as something inside me—one that continues to adapt, reshape, and travel wherever I go next.

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