In my youth, my feet were tied to the ground for but once a year.

Each summer, I was set free in the once-foreign mountains that quickly became the closest thing I'd ever had to call home.

I was the kid always lost in a daydream in history class wishing I was running through the pines, playing Capture the Flag with my summer camp friends instead of running down the sidewalk from the bus stop to my doorstep to get out of the rain before it could soak me to the bone.

My only goal in growing up was to escape; to leave that coastal town and find refuge in the mountains.

I had only ever seen my mountains in the summer when they were dusted with wildflowers and kissed by the sun all day long. That first winter was a harsh wake-up call. The wildflowers were replaced with snowflakes and the warm friendly company of the summer sun was replaced by the harsh bite of the winter wind. I was suddenly alone in the only place I'd ever been able to call home.

So I did what any desperate young person would do and I moved across the ocean. To a far-off land, I brought my 23 kg suitcases to chase a new mountain home. It was everything I thought I'd ever wanted but I had to leave too soon. And though I grew up a lot in those foreign mountains an ocean away, it wasn't enough to stop me from doing it again.

This is my third time running away to foreign mountains, I think I have it figured out. Don't let yourself float away to the moon in search of newer mountains that won't pack a winter bite. Or you'll miss the flowers under your feet that bloom while you're distracted looking for your new home. Home is where you are, where you plant your own wildflowers and make your own summer sunshine warmth.

So now I yearn for those first foreign mountains that will always be my favorite home. A piece of my heart lives in each of the mountains I have floated away to. And I feel at home in each, but nothing can compare to the first place you make your home and find yourself starting to bloom.