A place that I feel perfectly content is where I know that I’m home. However, I don’t quite consider myself to have the same definition of “home” as others. I’ve spent my eighteen years of life as a notorious newcomer. I have no hometown, I have no childhood friends, and the longest time I’ve lived anywhere was six years. I often feel like a chameleon being forced to adapt to different places and environments in order to survive. Yet, due to this experience I have obtained a valuable gift. I have realized that home, for me, isn’t necessarily pulling up to a house with a white picket fence and a mailbox with my family name painted on it. Home, for me, is something I carry within myself from Aurora to Castle Rock to Denver to London to Salt Lake City and so forth. While living in London, I had the opportunity to experience many different cultures, but none impacted my life quite like when I traveled to the Maasai Mara desert in Kenya. In western culture, the slightest deviation from what is considered socially acceptable can so easily turn a teenage girl into a social outcast, which is certainly not a feeling that correlates with the feeling of home. Those who consider home to be a place of birth, an institution, or a household would be utterly astonished at how perfectly content the villagers of Kenya were in what we would consider a “nomadic state.” While watching these villagers moving from village to village, following herds, and building new mud-huts, I observed a beautiful thing. Along with their woven baskets carrying the little amount of items they owned, they carried with them an incredible love for each other that no place could strip from them. The following year my family once again called the movers, packed our lives into cardboard boxes and shipped them across the ocean to a place called Salt Lake City, Utah. Feeling that once again I had been cheated out of a home, moving became like a leech that was sucking the life from me. Despite the