My husband repeats, almost daily, “Children are resilient.”

I know that’s the general consensus among military families but for the moment, those words are not so reassuring.

Only two of my five children are old enough to really remember our life back on the mainland. There, well-raised southern children say ma’am and sir. School lasts until nearly 3 p.m. and after-school hours are dedicated to activities and homework. They know what fall looks like. They remember the feel of winter’s cold. They’ve touched snow.

After nearly four years in Hawaii, my children are chilled by evening temperatures that dip to 81 degrees. Everyone here is addressed as auntie or uncle. We can’t seem to keep track of shoes because frankly, they don’t wear them or need them. School ends at lunchtime and afterwards, we head to the beach.

Now that we are heading into our last days on the island, and have moved into a hotel, they ask every evening to go home. They cry when I tell them we are sleeping in the hotel instead. They want to go back to our military quarters, their Hawaiian house, they say.

When I remind them of how much fun it will be to go “home,” back to the mainland, they whisper through their tears, ‘I am home.’

This breaks my heart.

I’ve enjoyed our tour in Hawaii. It is beautiful. We’ve had lots of fantastic experiences and my friends currently battling winter winds call me crazy for deciding to leave. Sure, I could spend a lifetime here but I would do so knowing that I never quite fit in. This is not where I belong.

But what about my kids? What if it is where they belong? What if I am stripping them not just from their current home but from the place that they feel most connected to in their soul?

This thought keeps me up at night.

My husband tells me they are resilient. That they will find their footing back on the mainland and feel at home in no time. I am sure he is right. I am sure that they will make friends, join activities and have great adventures.

But what happens when they realize that no matter how lovely that place is, they just don’t feel like they belong? That they left that place decades ago as a small child with only memories of the lovely, wafting, scent of plumeria blossoms, salty seas and tradewind breezes.

I love that my children are citizens of the world and have had the chance to travel and experience new cultures. But I always fear that someday we will leave behind that one place that they consider their own. I know what it is like to feel like an outsider; to love a place but not quite fit in. I hope that our gypsy-like, military life never leaves them with that feeling.

Resilient, yes they are. But that doesn’t mean they are without an aching for home – wherever that may be.