It’s been three years.

For some, three years is just a speck of time. For Edward Cullen or Nightbringer Aphelios—everlasting creatures defying the cycle of life—three years mean nothing. But for me, a mere human, three years is a long time. The longest I’ve ever spent away from home.

Like any finite human being, I miss home. We often associate home with the place where we grew up, where we were nurtured and prepared for life. That is, for those of us lucky enough to have been raised in a loving household. But what am I supposed to do when home doesn’t feel like home anymore?

I’ve spoken with a few friends who came to Vancouver with the same dream as mine, and many share this feeling of not belonging anywhere. We visit home, hoping to finally feel at peace, only to be met with a cruel realization: home no longer feels like home. It’s insane to think that three years is enough to make you realize that your small twin-sized bed in a room full of K-pop posters no longer compares to the comfort of your queen-sized bed in an overpriced basement suite.

What we experience when we visit our home country is what my therapist calls “a mirage.” According to Google, a mirage is “an optical illusion caused by atmospheric conditions.” I think this word perfectly describes the fleeting glimpse of our old lives.

And I call it an “old life” because it doesn’t exist anymore—just like a mirage. What we experience in those two weeks is bittersweet, and in the end, it pulls the pin out of our hearts (yes, my current obsession is Pierce The Veil, so expect plenty of song references). It makes us wonder if we’re making the right choice—erasing ourselves from the lives of those who raised us—our parents, friends, cousins—to chase a dream, a possibility, an opportunity.

If there’s one thing I remember from my Macroeconomics class, it’s that every choice comes with a sacrifice. My professor called it opportunity cost. That concept stuck with me. Everything has an opportunity cost. The cost of choosing the world over your roots is missing out on your little cousins growing up, watching your parents age through a screen, being away from your closest friends, and sometimes, even leaving behind someone you love.

Moving to a different country means erasing ourselves from the life where the people we love still exist and painting ourselves into a culture and country where we may never fully belong. Yes, we might never fit in here, but when we visit home, we realize we don’t belong there anymore either. So what on Earth do we do?

Whenever I feel like giving up everything I’ve built in these three years and returning home (a feeling that usually surfaces after a trip to Brazil), I remind myself that it was all a beautiful mirage. The time I spend there is nothing more than an optical illusion—my home country seen through the eyes of someone who lives abroad—shaped by atmospheric conditions, fueled by the hole in my heart left by the absence of my loved ones.

I know my mother’s arms will always be open if I decide to return. I know my father’s steak will be waiting to feed my soul. But life doesn’t end the day the plane lands. The dream I live when I visit them does not reflect the reality of daily life back home—the same reality that once made me leave.

It’s been three years since I started feeling like I don’t belong anywhere. And every time that ache creeps in, I remind myself that if I don’t belong anywhere, I can make everywhere feel like home.

I make my bed feel like home. My solo sushi nights feel like home. My rainy Sundays and video games feel like home. My coffee dates with friends I met along the way feel like home. But I will always know that my mother’s embrace feels like home. Sunny days by my old pool feel like home. My cousin’s laughter feels like home. My crossed-faith lover’s kiss feels like home.

At the end of the day, it’s up to me to create that feeling. It’s on all of us to make ourselves feel at home.