I never intended to live as a nomad — but life, in its own way, chose that path for me. Recently displaced, I’ve learned that when you lose a place, you begin to carry your world within. Borders no longer separate lands; they divide memories, moments, and the versions of yourself you once knew. There’s a strange silence that follows displacement — the kind that doesn’t just come from leaving home, but from realizing you may never find one again. You start to measure time not by days or years, but by how many times you’ve had to begin again. Being a nomad is not freedom; it’s survival wrapped in motion. Every move is both an escape and a search — for safety, for meaning, for a place where the heart can rest. I’ve come to understand that home isn’t always a location; sometimes it’s a feeling, a prayer, a face remembered under fading light. I shape to remind myself that even when everything familiar is taken away, identity endures — quiet, patient, and unbroken. My work is a reflection of this belief.