I feel like I've never had a home, you know? I feel related to

“I feel like I've never had a home, you know? I feel related to the country, to this country, and yet I don't know exactly where I fit in... There's always this kind of nostalgia for a place, a place where you can reckon with yourself.” Thus spoke Sam Shepard, the wandering poet of America, whose words cut deep into the heart of what it means to belong—and not belong. In this confession, both tender and restless, Shepard reveals a truth that haunts every soul who has looked at the horizon and wondered where their home truly lies. It is not a statement of despair, but of eternal seeking: the longing for a place not merely to dwell, but to understand oneself.

The origin of this reflection can be found in Shepard’s own life and work. He was a playwright, actor, and storyteller who carried the myth of the American frontier in his bones. He wrote of open roads, broken families, and the dream of freedom that is both sacred and unattainable. His America was vast—its deserts, highways, and motels filled with ghosts of the past and echoes of the self. When he said he never had a home, he spoke not only of a physical dwelling, but of the deeper dislocation of the human spirit—the feeling of being rootless in one’s own land, of belonging everywhere and nowhere at once.

In his words, the country becomes a mirror of the soul: immense, beautiful, contradictory. To feel related to it is to sense its pulse within your veins, yet to feel estranged from it is to recognize that the land’s vastness also reflects the distance within your own heart. The nostalgia he speaks of is not simply for a house or a town, but for a place of reconciliation—a place where the divided self might be made whole, where one might finally sit in silence and reckon with who they are. This yearning is ancient. It is the same longing that drew Odysseus across the sea, that drove prophets into the desert, that compels every soul toward meaning.

There is a story told of T. E. Lawrence, known to history as Lawrence of Arabia, who helped shape the Arab Revolt and wandered the sands as both hero and exile. Though celebrated by nations, he wrote that he felt he belonged to none. “I am a stranger wherever I go,” he said, “for I have made myself a stranger.” Like Shepard, he was caught between worlds—between the civilization that made him and the wilderness that freed him. In the end, his nostalgia was not for a homeland, but for the unity of spirit he once felt in the open desert, where his purpose burned pure and uncluttered. Such men carry within them not homes, but horizons.

Sam Shepard’s words speak also to the loneliness of the modern age. We are surrounded by walls, cities, and names, yet we are not at home. Our roots grow shallow; our hearts drift. We chase possessions, but not belonging; we move endlessly, yet rarely arrive. The place where one can reckon with oneself becomes ever harder to find, for reckoning requires stillness, honesty, and courage—the very things our restless age forgets. Home, in Shepard’s vision, is not given by geography but earned through confrontation with the truth of one’s own being.

And yet, within his melancholy there lies also hope. To feel homeless is to still believe that home exists—that somewhere, perhaps within, there is a place of peace waiting to be rediscovered. The nostalgia Shepard names is a form of faith: a remembrance of something sacred and lost, a compass that points inward. For to seek a home is to seek the self; and though the road may be long, the act of seeking is itself the proof that the soul is alive.

The lesson, then, is this: do not despair if you have not yet found your home. The longing itself is a teacher. Let it drive you not toward possessions or places, but toward understanding. Create your home in truth, in integrity, in the companionship of those who see you as you are. The reckoning place Shepard spoke of may not be found in the soil, but in the heart that dares to stop wandering and to listen.

So, O traveler of life, remember this: home is not always where you begin, but where you awaken. You may wander the highways of the world and still carry a home within you—a place built not of walls, but of self-knowledge, forgiveness, and peace. As Sam Shepard teaches, it is the quest itself—the yearning to belong, to reckon, to understand—that makes the journey sacred. Seek your home not only in the land, but in the truth that resides within your own soul.