My Love/Hate Relationship with Home
If home is where the heart is, then my heart is a tangled mess of Cairo traffic during rush hour. Growing up between Alexandria, Paris, and later London, I’ve often wondered, “Where is home, really?” I suppose it’s a love story—messy, complicated, and full of moments that make you want to laugh, cry, or just order another espresso. But isn’t that what love is supposed to feel like?
Here’s the thing: Where we grow up shapes us, for better or worse. Home becomes our first idea of love and connection, teaching us what feels like warmth—and what feels like chaos. Mine taught me about belonging, rejection, and why you’ll never convince an Egyptian or a French person to agree on how to make the “perfect” cup of coffee.
The Seduction of Nostalgia
Let’s begin with Alexandria—the city of my firsts. Picture me, as a child, running barefoot through our apartment in a hand-me-down galabeya, the faint smell of the sea sneaking in through the open window. My childhood was a swirl of multi-generational family dinners, fiercely debated politics over koshary, and my grandmother humming Umm Kulthum while weaving silver bracelets on her loom. It was the kind of place that made you feel like you were one thread in a much bigger tapestry, a love letter to community and tradition.
But then there were the rules. Oh, the rules. In Egypt, everyone has an opinion about your life—especially your love life. Honestly, it felt like all of Alexandria was populated by self-appointed relationship experts. “Zahra, don’t laugh so loudly, boys won’t like it.” “No boyfriend until marriage!” And let’s not even get into the unsolicited lectures on “how to sit properly” in public spaces.
To this day, I blame Alexandria for my emotional whiplash when it comes to relationships. One moment you’re swept away by a romantic ideal, the next you’re questioning if you even know what you want. It was also there that I learned one very real truth: Everyone might be rooting for your happily-ever-after, but no one will hesitate to point out what you’re “doing wrong” along the way.
A Parisian Affair
When I was ten, my parents traded Mediterranean chaos for the quiet sophistication of Paris. And let me tell you, Paris wasn’t shy about letting me know I didn’t quite fit. My Egyptian sandwiches wrapped in wax paper were no match for French schoolchildren and their impossibly chic baguettes. To the average Parisian classmate, I was neither fully Egyptian nor fully French. There, “home” felt like an elusive lover you could never quite pin down: beautiful, mysterious, a bit aloof.
Still, Paris knew how to flirt. When I was 17, I took my first solo walk to Shakespeare and Company, the legendary bookstore by the Seine. I wandered along the river with a second-hand copy of Balzac tucked under my arm and thought, “This is it. I’m home.” Paris caught me in glimpses—cobblestones in the Marais, the stern nod of a boulanger as I ordered my morning croissant, the floodlit beauty of Sacré-Cœur rising above Montmartre.
But if Alexandria controlled love like a helicopter parent, then Paris was the ghosting ex who occasionally sent you a 2 a.m. text. The city made you work for connection. It demanded effort, perfection. People didn’t open up easily, not without a second or third glass of wine. In many ways, Paris taught me about the slow burn of love. It wasn’t about instant gratification; it was about cultivating something meaningful over time.
London: A Slow but Steady Commitment
And then came London, my first big solo move. It felt practical compared to Alexandria and Paris—a laid-back, unbothered kind of partner. “You do you,” London seemed to say. Never too intrusive, but always there when you needed a pint at the local pub or a rainy afternoon with tea and a cozy cardigan. London didn’t flaunt its charm like Paris or wrap you in familial guilt like Alexandria. It simply let you breathe.
Still, adjusting to London wasn’t as instant as rom-coms about fresh starts might have you believe. At times, I felt like an outsider looking in. But slowly, the city carved out spaces in my heart. I found a little Egyptian deli that carried my mother’s favorite spice blend. There was that one Turkish restaurant in Haringey where the food tasted eerily similar to the dolma I grew up with. And the multicultural streets of East London whispered to me: You don’t have to fit perfectly here. London left space for my imperfections—and maybe that’s why it still feels like the partner I’ll grow old with.
Falling In and Out of Love with “Home”
So, let’s talk about love and how it relates to home. I believe home is like that one dimension of love people rarely discuss: self-acceptance. Whether your home is a sprawling family villa or a cramped studio apartment with questionable plumbing, it reflects key parts of who you are—and sometimes, the parts you wish you weren’t.
It took me years to view my journey between these cities from a place of appreciation rather than frustration. Leaving Alexandria shattered the sense of clan identity I’d grown up with. Paris made me feel alien, an outsider in a perfectly tailored jacket. And London? London taught me the value of all those fractured pieces, how they fit together to make someone whole. What I once saw as displacement became a gift—each place teaching me more not just about itself but about who I could become.
Lessons Learned Along the Way
Here’s what my love/hate relationship with “home” has taught me:
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It’s Okay to Fall Out of Love
Some places, like some relationships, are better left in the past. They serve their time, their purpose, and that’s okay. Alexandria will never stop being the blueprint for my idea of family, but I’ve also accepted that I don’t belong there anymore. -
You Can Love What Annoys You
Paris—what a moody, beautiful mess. But isn’t that the charm? Whether it’s a lover who overanalyzes everything or a city that judges you for not knowing how to pronounce “poêle,” you learn to embrace imperfections as part of the experience. -
Home Is What You Carry With You
Your identity, your traditions, your quirks—they shape your relationships, just as they’re shaped by the places you live. Home doesn’t need to be a single address. It can be an oud song hummed in a London café or the tiny jar of Alexandrian dukka stuffed in your carry-on.
Closing Thoughts
So, here’s my takeaway: Home isn’t static. It’s not a place you plant a flag and say, “I’ve arrived.” It evolves, like the best relationships do. It breaks your heart sometimes, yes, but also finds unexpected ways to mend it.
And if you’re still looking for “home,” whether in places, people, or planets far, far away (shoutout to Star Wars fans), remember: It’s okay to love imperfectly and leave with gratitude. After all, the real journey isn’t about finding a place—it’s about rediscovering yourself.
