The worst feeling in the world is the homesickness that comes

When E. W. Howe wrote, “The worst feeling in the world is the homesickness that comes over a man occasionally when he is at home,” he revealed a sorrow deeper than distance — the loneliness of the soul that cannot find rest even in its own dwelling. It is a haunting paradox: to be surrounded by the familiar, yet to feel estranged; to walk through rooms you have built, yet sense that something essential is missing. This is not the homesickness of the traveler or the exile, but the ache of the spirit that has lost its connection to belonging, to meaning, to the quiet harmony between the heart and its surroundings.

Howe was an observer of human nature, a writer who understood the subtle sadness hidden beneath ordinary life. His words speak of a spiritual homelessness — a condition that no roof or hearth can cure. Many people build fine houses, gather family and wealth, and yet, in moments of stillness, feel as though they are strangers within their own walls. This is the homesickness of the heart: not for a physical place, but for a state of wholeness — for the sense of being truly at home within oneself. It is a cry of the inner self that says, “I have all that I need, and yet I have lost myself.”

Such a feeling is not new to the human race. The ancients too spoke of it — the longing for the “true country,” the eternal homeland of the soul. The philosophers of old said that man is a wanderer between earth and heaven, that his spirit remembers a purer realm from which it came. Plato called it anamnesis — the recollection of the divine. To feel homesick while at home, then, may be the soul’s reminder that no material comfort can satisfy its deeper hunger. The bed may be soft, the hearth warm, but the heart is restless until it finds its way back to purpose, to love, to the eternal truth that once gave it life.

Consider the story of Leo Tolstoy, who in his later years walked away from his vast estate and wealth in search of peace. Though surrounded by luxury and fame, he felt empty — a stranger in his own house, exiled from his own soul. He had written great novels, shaped the minds of generations, and yet he confessed that life felt hollow. His homesickness was not for the countryside of Russia, but for the truth he had lost amid comfort. He sought simplicity, compassion, and spiritual clarity — and in that search, he found a deeper home within himself. His story is the living echo of Howe’s words: even surrounded by everything that should make us content, we may yet feel far from where we truly belong.

This kind of homesickness arises when the outer life no longer mirrors the inner one. When we live according to habit instead of conviction, when our days are busy but our souls are silent, we begin to feel this quiet ache — as though the spirit itself has been left behind. It is a call to return, not to a physical place, but to authenticity. To remember what once made us feel alive. To rediscover gratitude, love, and wonder. The man who feels homesick while at home is the one whose soul reminds him that comfort is not peace, and possession is not belonging.

And yet, this sorrow can be a gift, for it awakens us. Just as the traveler’s longing for home drives him to return, so too does this inner homesickness urge us toward renewal. It asks: “Where is your joy? Where is your faith? Where have you hidden the child within you?” If we listen, we may find that home was never lost — only forgotten. We may begin to rebuild it not in walls and rooms, but in love, in truth, in the quiet companionship of the soul reconciled with its purpose.

So remember this lesson, child of time: if ever you sit beneath your own roof and feel like a stranger, do not despair. Let that homesickness guide you inward. Seek the parts of yourself that you have neglected — the dreams unspoken, the kindness withheld, the peace traded for noise. Rekindle your inner fire, and your house will again become a home. For the truest home is not the one made by hands, but the one built within the heart — and when the heart is whole, wherever you stand becomes home again.