I’ve always been a homebody. I would much rather watch Netflix and bake cookies, then have a night out on the town. I’m much more of a binge watcher than a marathon shopper. I consider a good day out as a day that I can fit in a long run or go hiking. That being said, the house where I grew up has always been home to me. Well, until recently.
My first three year of college when I said I was going home, I meant I was going back to that house where I had my own room with my posters and things on the wall. The room where I could leave things out or have my bed unmade and close a door because no one would see it. The room that hosted many sleep overs and many surprises. It was the room that held the bed that I’ve cried in and laughed in. It had all sorts of memories that made it home. With the perfect view of my best friend’s house down the street and the brilliant view of my favorite ocean, I knew when I walked through that door I was home.
But more than that, home was where my parents were. It was the loud music being played on a lazy Saturday to get us all up so that we could eat breakfast. It was the smell of our Christmas tree when I came home for break. It was the sound of chaos when all of us where home. But most of all it was the place that I knew I was always safe and accepted. It was my escape from all the craziness of college and not always getting along with roommates.
And I always knew that one day things would change. That one day I would walk through that blue door and feel like I was a guest visiting my parent’s home. I knew that at some point, the place I was living would be home and where my life was instead of the house I grew up in. Slowly, I was preparing myself for that day.
This summer I realized that the day I was officially grown up was coming sooner than I had expected. Before I left for my last year of college, I began to take those memories that made that house home down. Down came the pictures, the frames, the posters of movies that I used to be obsessed with. Away went the stuffed animals from my childhood and the various trinkets that decorated the tops of shelves and cubes. Gone was the bed that I had since I was a toddler and the tea sets that were kept in that monstrous wooden cabinet that used to be mounted to my wall. In the end, all that was left was my books in their cubes, classified by author and genre, the containers of yarn skeins that held projects yet to be discovered, and the bow and quiver mounted on the wall. Some of the books shifted to the wall, floating magically and displaying my favorite collections. But despite it still being my room, it was no longer my childhood room.
Now, I don’t say this to make my parents feel bad, and mom and dad, if that is what happened, I am sincerely apologetic. What I am trying to say is that part of growing up is moving on and one day moving out.
I still left for school feeling like that house was home, but then I moved into my apartment at school. Sure it is small, but it is cozy. Yeah the walls are thin, but that’s part of college. The bedroom is small, maybe five feet of space between my roommate’s bed and mine. The kitchen doesn’t fit both of us in it and if the fridge door is open, you can’t get past. But with each box, each tack, each picture, and each piece of myself, it became my home. Those memories that I had packed away from that house I grew up in, exploded into my apartment. Pictures decorate my wall of my best friends and my family. My race medals and bibs hang proudly on the wall. It looks lived in and not just lived but loved.
Dishes are in the sink, towels hang haphazardly from hooks in the bathroom. Sometimes beds are made, but other times everything seems to explode everywhere. New memories are made. Laughter during movie nights are cemented into roommate bonding. Dinners cooked with friends reminds us that we are doing this on our own. Frustration from homework reminds us that its okay if we aren’t quite ready to be completely on our own yet. I hope our parents walk into the apartment and feel like this is our home now.
But the true realization of my tiny apartment with my hilarious and awesome roommate being my home was this last week. I went home for a wedding of a high school friend, and for the first time, I walked through that blue front door and felt like I was arriving at my parent’s home. It was still the house I grew up in, but there wasn’t that same feeling. I was only a visitor and I was perfectly okay with that. For the first time, I put my travel sized shampoo and conditioner in the shower and I was truly visiting.
And I realized that home is not where necessarily where you grew up or where the person you love is, but it is the place where you make memories that you cherish. It is the place you know, and it is the place that allows you to recharge and rest. For me, it is currently a tiny apartment at my college, but I know that when I graduate in May, my home will change. But no matter what, the memories created in each place will be what defines it as home.
March To A Different Drum 