When Home Is Far Away: Homesickness, Depression, and the Longing That Doesn't Go Away

I moved from Greece to the Netherlands in my 30s.

"But Odysseus… sat on the rock in torment, grieving in his heart,
shedding tears…"

"But nothing I know is sweeter than my own country and my parents,
even if I dwell in a rich house in a foreign land…"

It wasn't a reckless move — it was thoughtful, hopeful, necessary in many ways. But even now, years later, this place still doesn't feel like home. And the ache for my hometown hasn't softened. In fact, when you live with depression, it's as if that ache has a microphone — everything is louder, heavier, and harder to carry.

Homesickness isn't just about missing a place. It's about missing a version of yourself that belonged. That felt known. That didn't have to explain anything.

What I Miss Isn't Just "Back Home"

I miss the sea at the limani port — the way the light plays on the water, how the salt air wraps around your skin like a blessing. I miss coffee time with family — not just the drink, but the sacred ritual of talking, sharing, checking in. I miss walking through neighborhoods filled with music, laughter, and conversation. Lights everywhere. Life everywhere.

I miss the food — oh, the food! The flavors that feel like home on your tongue. The taverna tables spilling into the streets, filled with people clinking glasses and telling stories. The hum of a culture that lives out loud.

Depression Makes It All More Intense

When you live with depression, homesickness doesn't come as a gentle tug. It comes as a wave that knocks you off your feet. Everything already feels gray and heavy — and now there's a bright, technicolor world you miss, playing in your mind like a memory you can't go back to.

Depression blurs joy and sharpens loss.
It magnifies the loneliness of being far away.
It makes it harder to form new roots — when even getting out of bed feels like a task.

So What Do You Do With This Ache?

You don't push it away. You don't shame it or try to "move on."

You honor it — because it's rooted in love.

Here are a few ways I try to hold that love without letting it crush me:

1. I created a little "Greece corner" in my Dutch apartment.

Just a candle that smells like the sea. A jar of Greek oregano. My favorite music. A photo of the limani. These small things remind me: Home isn't gone. It's in me.

2. I make time for Greek coffee — and the stories that go with it.

Even if I drink it alone, I imagine I'm with family. Sometimes I video call them and talk out loud:
"How was your day? Oh, let me tell you mine."
It's soothing. It connects me to what matters.

3. I let myself grieve.

Homesickness is grief in disguise. And grief is a form of love. I write about it. I name it. I say:

"This is me missing being held by life."
"This is love with nowhere to land."

4. I try to build tiny rituals that feel like home.

A weekly walk. A certain meal on Sundays. A playlist. Anything that gives my body a rhythm again. Something familiar. Something mine.

If You Feel This Too…

You're not alone. There's no "right age" to start over, and no timeline for when a place should feel like home. If your heart is still elsewhere, it doesn't mean you're doing something wrong. It means you're human.

Some of us are meant to live in more than one world. To carry multiple skies inside us. To never forget the sounds of home — even if we build a life somewhere else.

And maybe… that's not a weakness. Maybe that's a quiet kind of strength.

-With Elli-