On every legal and public document, my address is written as 15567 Hickory St. This is my house. My place of residence. But what sets this building apart from the next? What makes this place more than just a shelter?

On October 14, 2006, my newborn wails were first heard in the Bergan Mercy Hospital in Omaha, Nebraska. Although my heart beat for the first time in the United States, my heart belongs farther south. 3,873 miles to be exact. My soul is instinctively bound to the mega-city of Lima, Perú, where the music booms louder, the seafood is fresher, and the tide feels cooler.

     Just days after getting married a block from their childhood homes, my parents booked the first flight they could, en route to the promising “land of opportunity”: the United States of America, in 2001.

     Once my sister and I were born, they formed a mutual commitment to keep us connected to our roots. Accordingly, we visited our family in Lima every Christmas or during the summer if my dad’s work schedule allowed it.

     Frolicking in the cul de sac of my grandma’s house, my cousins and I would play from morning to night, riding our too-small, beat-down bikes around the neighborhood and playing soccer using the benches in the circle as goalposts. Once the sun descended into dusk, we’d scurry inside to devour a warm, home-cooked meal of “tallarines verdes,”, prepared lovingly by my grandma, and scamper back outside to play until bedtime.

     I had, and still do, the time of my life on those trips. There’s just something about the air back there, a feeling of belonging I can rarely place back home. Whether it’s the climate, the food, the buzz, or the people, even the strangers on the street, what I feel there is something inexplicable.

     To some, the humid weather, never-ending noise, bright lights, and loud chatter of Lima can be aggravating. But to me it’s perfect. It’s life perfectly embodied in the form of a city.

     So does “home” just entail where you hang your coat up at the end of the day? Or is it where you feel at your most comfortable, natural state? Is it the people you feel the safest around? Is it the environment you taste, smell, and hear when you’re drifting off to sleep? Is it a mixture of the three? I think so.

     If you were to ask me, the familiar sensation of home boils down to just that. The connotation of “home” represents something deeper than simply where you direct your mail. Even in the biological sense, we–humans, as animals–require a sanctuary like this, whether it’s in the form of a cave, nest, or burrow.

     This conclusion was only fortified when I took AP Psychology last year. American psychologist Abraham Maslow researched human nature and what we as a specimen require to survive. He developed “Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs”, a humanistic theory of personality that lists human needs in order of importance, with shelter listed as one of human’s core necessities alongside food, water, clothing, and oxygen. For a person to reach their highest potential, or experience “self-actualization”, they must first fulfill their basic essentials. Everyone, no matter your background or experiences, innately requires a hollow of comfort and security. It’s part of our biological structure, no matter where you’re from.

     With this, it’s important to point out that it’s not like I don’t love or appreciate my life in Nebraska, but it’s just that I feel more “at home” in my country of origin. My primary tier of needs is satiated here. After all, I was born here and I’ve met my best friends living and going to school here. Omaha is an amazing city, and I wouldn’t trade my life here for the world. A part of my heart is anchored here as well, with my home and my favorite coffee shops and parks. Some of my best memories were made in the States.

     This is a point of view that other children of immigrants share, no matter where in the world their family calls home.

     I often have conversations with my friends about how much we miss our countries. It’s nice to know that I’m not the only one who feels homesick sometimes.

     I’ve gotten so used to visiting every Christmas that I don’t remember the last time I was in Omaha for the holidays. I don’t even know what I would do if I was here. Although I might soon.

     This year, my family might not visit for Christmas because holiday season plane ticket prices have inflated greatly. Check in on me later in the year, guys.

     Anyway, as the old saying goes, “home is where the heart is. ”Although I work, study, and reside in West Omaha, I feel the soundest surrounded by my culture, family, and best friends. No other tangible item or location could replace the sensation of home.