I moved three times in the last year. My preconceptions of what a “home” is meant to be seemed to dissolve the longer I spent living on my own. Searching for a sense of home felt like aiming for a moving target, like stumbling around in the dark trying to locate the light switch. I couldn’t find it until I began looking with a camera in my hand. HOME became a study of the things I come from, my point of origin. It became a who, not what or where or when. Home is the intimate relationships with people that raised me, the people I miss when I go away. My family. I’m on my own now, but home gives me something to go back to, once in a while.