Still Here, But Not Necessarily at Home

By LONNIE KING

There was a time when being a Texan meant something I carried with pride. And being American? That meant gratitude. Gratitude for freedom, for opportunity, for the chance to speak my mind without fear and build a life rooted in shared values — even if we disagreed about how to live them out.

But these days, I feel like I’ve been evicted from both of those identities.

Still here. Still paying taxes. Still holding up my end of the deal. But no longer at home in the place I was born or the country I loved.

Something Has Shifted

I used to roll my eyes at people who said things like, “This isn’t the country I grew up in.” It felt like overreaction, nostalgia, or selective memory. And truthfully, most of the folks I grew up hearing say that were mourning a version of America where their comfort took precedence over someone else’s rights — where “the good old days” often meant the bad old days for anyone who didn’t look, think, or live like them.

But now, ironically, I find myself feeling something similar — not because I want to go backward, but because I’m stunned by how far the pendulum has swung in the other direction. I don’t share their politics or their worldview, but I do understand the ache.

Things have changed. And the place I once called home doesn’t feel like home anymore.

Political trolling has become the language of leadership. Vindictive, performative cruelty is now mistaken for strength. And the legislative and judicial branches — once imagined as checks on executive power — have become little more than rubber stamps.

They’re not protecting the people or defending the Constitution. They’re enabling a power addict. They’ve handed the keys to someone hell-bent on operating outside the boundaries of the system they swore to uphold.

There’s an ugliness rising — and I don’t recognize this place anymore.

A Map Full of Maybes

I’ll admit it: I’ve looked. Not just casual scrolling—real research. I’ve read about visa options for Portugal and Spain. I’ve browsed expat forums, watched TikTok videos of Americans building new lives abroad, and found myself wondering if they’ve found something I’ve been missing.

I even bought a subscription to Babbel and started trying to learn Portuguese, just in case…but:

Mas estou a ter dificuldades com isso.

Still, for the first time in my life, I’ve seriously considered what it might mean to not live in America anymore. Not out of hatred, but out of heartbreak. Out of a longing for peace, dignity, and a life that doesn’t feel like a constant battle against cruelty dressed up as patriotism.

But, life is rarely as simple as running away and escaping your problems.

I have responsibilities here. Family. Work. People I love. People who need me. And in all honesty, starting over in a brand-new place isn’t a luxury I can afford right now — financially, emotionally, or logistically.

So I stay. But I stay as someone who no longer feels rooted.

Exile Without Departure

There’s a kind of exile that doesn’t involve moving. You can still live in your house, still go to the same grocery store, still wave at the same neighbors — and yet feel completely foreign in your own land.

The slogans don’t make sense anymore.  The sermons don’t ring true.  The people in power don’t even pretend to serve the common good.

It’s disorienting. It’s lonely. It’s exhausting. You start wondering if you’re the problem — too sensitive, too cynical, too unwilling to “see the good.” But eventually, you realize the ache you feel is grief. You’re mourning something that once gave you comfort.

You’re mourning a home that no longer welcomes you.

When You Can’t Leave, What Can You Do?

I don’t have a neat conclusion here. I’m not going to wrap this up with a motivational slogan or a call to arms. I’m just being honest: I feel out of place in the state where I grew up and the country I was taught to revere. And right now, I can’t change that by leaving.

But maybe I can still claim a kind of resistance by telling the truth.  By naming what’s broken.  By refusing to pretend things are fine when they’re not.  By creating space for others who feel the same exiled ache but haven’t found the words yet.

Maybe being “at home” isn’t always about geography. Maybe sometimes it’s about finding, or creating, pockets of honesty and connection in a place that no longer feels familiar.

And maybe that’s the kind of quiet, stubborn hope that keeps us grounded when the world around us comes undone.

Grace and grit to you!  — LK