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  It’s a song that stays on repeat in my head, a gentle haunting that keeps reminding me where I come from—  Home . When I was 18, I brazenly thought that I was ready to leave, but the truth is I keep trying to get back there. My feet have wandered far.  But I never really left home.  Because it lives and breathes under my skin. It’s the story that’s begging to be told For better or worse. The road home is intangible. It’s not clearly charted and it’s immeasurable. Yet, no matter how far I go, it’s home that calls me back over and over. It’s what made me in all its fits of laughter and tears and in all its spitfire and scars. We are so much more than skin deep, thus memoirs are crafted differently for different people. I have read enough to conclude there is no right way or wrong way. It’s your own story and often takes years to be content with something so intricate, layered, and personal. It breaks you open. One thing I know, even if I am unsure of how— Simply begin. Life is never ne

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