What does home mean to you? For two years, I had no real definition of or sense of home. I moved anywhere from every few weeks to every few months. I couldn’t stay in any one place long enough to plan a dinner out, make friends or have any sense of roots or belonging.

I have a condition known as multiple chemical sensitivity, or MCS, which induces extreme physical reactions to fragrances and chemicals in minute amounts. Perfumes, lotions, cleaning products, new carpet or construction, pesticides and air fresheners, among many other things, can all be a big problem. Even their residue can enough to cause mental and physical deterioration.

At 24, after living with my parents for as long as I could, I couldn’t find any apartments or roomshares that worked for me in Maine. So I set off across the country to find something that would. I used MCS websites to find other people with chemical sensitivities who had houses that would be compatible with my needs.

I ended up living in eight cities over two years in Vermont, New York, Montana and Oregon.

There was another complication. I have Asperger’s syndrome, a high-functioning form of autism. This can make it difficult for me to communicate effectively with others, understand social rules and norms, and tolerate a lot of sensory stimuli (such as noise, certain kinds of weather, smells, fabric textures and so on).

The two years I spent traveling from place to place were a challenge, but they taught me a lot about the world and my place in it. I learned the power of my own strength and the value of human connection.

But I longed for Maine. The fresh air, the rocky coast, the forgiving forests. Monument Square, where the open space and familiar shops caused my heart to soar like a bird above the clouds; the narrow cobblestone streets of the Old Port, the radio stations I had been listening to since I was a teenager, and people who knew what real seafood was.

I longed for street and city names that made sense to me, the festivals of my youth, for people who knew me.

Away from Maine, I felt out of place, like my heart was living outside my body. And then, six months ago, I was finally able to find a living situation that worked for me here in Maine.

Finally, the air that had seemed so oppressive in upstate New York felt crisp and clear here; the places and people that surrounded me were at once familiar again; and much of my anxiety and angst melted away.

I am grateful every day that I live in Maine. Within half an hour in any direction, I can visit a dozen stunningly beautiful beaches; hike in another dozen wondrous hiking spots; buy organic food, wander the streets of the Old Port, and find a community with values that I share.

Now, I try very hard not to take anything for granted, and despite my disabilities, I enjoy life more now. My hope is that everyone reading this will think of what they are grateful for and appreciate it every day.

– Special to the Telegram