A week or so ago, I found myself rushing to Texas for a funeral. My uncle, my father’s only brother, had died unexpectedly. Even though my family is small and not very close, my uncle stepped into a very special place in my heart after my father’s suicide. Things like that happen when a family member takes his own life; brothers step in to fill the void.

Mike agreed to go with me, and the two of us headed west, bracing for the 14-plus hour drive.

There’s an old saying that goes something like, “you can’t go home again.”

I thought about that as I approached the Texas border. I spent the first 35 years of my life in Texas and had been looking forward to sharing some of my heritage with Mike as we sped past.

I was surprised, however, that I didn’t feel that thrill of excitement I had expected when we crossed the state line — that little sigh of relief that lets you know you finally have the home-field advantage. I put it down to grief as we passed into the Texas side of Texarkana.

When we got to Dallas, I spotted how much had changed since I called it home in the ’80s. Some things still were recognizable, the turnoff to the old duplex I lived in, an old favorite restaurant, but in between those places so much had changed.

In Austin, I tried to find the Howard Johnson’s where I spent a summer as a waitress between my junior and senior years in high school. It was gone in the name of progress and a new highway interchange. I pointed to the turnoff to my alma mater, and the exit of an old college boyfriend, but those were just about the only places I could remember.

We spent the night in the town where I attended my fourth first grade and my first second grade school; those two tumultuous years of my childhood spent while my father was finding a permanent church posting.

We attended the funeral and burial services, where I said goodbye to my uncle and met my first cousin. We didn’t have too much time for conversation as Mike and I left the cemetery and headed to the Shoals.

What I didn’t expect on this trip was to feel the thrill of excitement when we crossed the state line into Alabama. I sighed with relief at the thought that I was finally almost home.

Then it occurred to me. You can return home. It’s just that sometimes the location changes.

I’ll probably always call myself a Texan, something that has been ingrained in me since birth.

But my home is on a tiny hill near the practice fields of UNA. My place is in Florence, Alabama, as sure as it ever was in the Lone Star State. And it’s a pleasure to be here.

Leah Daniels is magazine editor at the TimesDaily. Her column is published Sundays on a rotating basis.