No Home, No Roots: The Exhausting Freedom of Being a Wanderer

It has been seven years. The last time I was in Galati, my hometown in Romania, was to see my grandmother for what I knew would be the last time.

When I was 11, my parents decided to move to Germany, leaving all our friends and family behind. They made the decision in about three months, which left no time for any of us to prepare. We didn’t know anyone in Germany. We didn’t speak the language. We didn’t know anything about the country.

I was thrilled!

Germany had never been my dream destination, but the idea of moving to a new place had always fascinated me, even as a child.

What I didn't anticipate was how challenging it would be to change countries and cultures at that age. At 11, you're too old to forget your origins and not feel like a stranger, but too young to have developed a personality that identifies with your background.

I never properly learned about Romanian history, politics, culture, or mentality — my understanding was limited to a child's perspective. I grew into adulthood under German influences yet never experienced a German childhood. The result? I feel no real connection to either country.

Since I was old enough to live on my own, I have become a wanderer and traveler. What began as an exciting journey has, 25 years later, become an exhausting way of life.

After moving from place to place for so many years, I've realized something important: I'm not traveling because I love adventure. I am running away. I lost the home I thought my family would provide. Each new place was another attempt to find a place where I might finally belong.

No matter how much I love exploring new places, I yearn to settle down. I need a place where I can build a nest, feel protected, and recharge. I need a place where I can relax, develop relationships, and enjoy even mundane days.

Returning to my Romanian hometown, I wondered if the sense of home I've been searching for might still be here. Perhaps my roots remained here, waiting to reconnect me to where I belong. Yet just like everywhere else I've lived, I feel as much a stranger here as anywhere. The roots I once had here withered long ago - neither I nor my family nurtured them. And while I've put down new roots in Germany, they've never grown deep enough to truly anchor me.

After 36 years of searching, I'm exhausted. I refuse to settle somewhere that doesn't feel right, yet I've realized the roots I crave won't be found in any physical place. If nowhere in the world feels like home, then home must be something I carry within myself - that quiet, safe space where I can finally stop running.