Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our

“Where we love is home — home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” Thus spoke Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., the poet-physician of America’s nineteenth century, whose words shimmer with the quiet wisdom of one who understood the immortal ties between love and belonging. In this line, tender as dawn and eternal as memory, he reminds us that home is not bound by walls or roofs, nor by the soil beneath our feet, but by the affection that binds our souls to one another. To love is to dwell—to belong wholly—and where the heart has loved deeply, that place, that person, becomes forever home, even if distance or time should carry us far away.

The origin of this saying lies in Holmes’s lifelong reflections on the passage of time and the enduring nature of human affection. Born in Massachusetts in 1809, Holmes was a man of intellect and heart—a physician by profession, a poet by calling, and a philosopher by nature. He lived in an age of change, when cities grew restless and families scattered across continents in pursuit of new destinies. Yet amid that movement, he discerned a truth that stands above all migration: that home is not lost by leaving, for it is carried within the heart. It lives in memory, in love, in the invisible threads that bind us to those we cherish.

To say that “where we love is home” is to proclaim that love creates place, that affection itself builds a dwelling more enduring than stone. One may wander across oceans, dwell in foreign lands, or sleep beneath strange skies, yet wherever the heart has given itself, there remains a sacred center. The soul returns to it again and again, as a bird returns to its nest at dusk. For love, once rooted, cannot be uprooted by mere miles. It is the unseen hearth that warms us in exile, the quiet music that follows us through the corridors of life.

There is an ancient echo of this truth in the story of Odysseus, the wanderer of Homer’s song. For twenty years he roamed the seas—through war, through tempests, through the embrace of immortals—and yet his heart never ceased to yearn for Ithaca, for the faithful Penelope, for the hearth he had built with love. Though his feet strayed across the wide world, his heart remained anchored to that small island home. It was not the land itself that called him back, but the love that filled it—the echo of laughter, the memory of touch, the peace that only belonging can bring. Thus, Holmes’s words, though modern, speak the same ancient truth that has burned in the hearts of wanderers since time began.

Holmes also understood the paradox of life: that we must often leave the places we love most in order to grow. The heart’s strength is proven not in stillness, but in its capacity to carry love through separation and change. Our feet may leave home, yet our hearts never truly depart. They plant invisible roots in the people and places that shaped us. A child grown old still dreams of the mother’s voice; a traveler in distant lands still hears the laughter of friends long gone. The body may dwell elsewhere, but the heart remains faithful to its first loves.

This truth holds even in sorrow. When those we love pass into death, when the houses of our youth crumble, when life scatters us across the winds, still love endures—and through love, home endures. The wise know that no farewell can erase what is written upon the soul. Home lives not in the place itself, but in the bond of the heart. The truest exile, therefore, is not one who travels far, but one who has forgotten how to love.

The lesson, then, is this: guard the hearth of your heart. Wherever you go, carry love with you, and you shall never be homeless. Speak kindly to those around you, for every act of warmth you offer builds a home in their hearts—and every act of gratitude builds one in yours. Remember the people and places that shaped you; keep their memory alive, not with tears, but with thankfulness. Love deeply, and you will never be a stranger in this world.

So, O traveler of life, remember the teaching of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.: home is not behind you, nor ahead of you—it is within you, and within all whom you love. The heart knows its dwelling even when the feet wander, and no distance, no time, no death can steal it away. For where love abides, there the soul finds rest, and wherever the soul finds rest—that, forever, is home.