To Call Another House "Home"

When I was younger, I had no trouble calling my house a home. No matter how many times I moved, it always felt like home to me. However, as I grew older, each time I moved into a new house, it began to feel less like a home to me and more like just a house.

I realized this when I randomly said “I want to go home," but I wasn’t anywhere unfamiliar. I was in my room, my own space, my own house, doomscrolling on my bed for what felt like hours. I couldn’t shake that unsettling, hollow feeling. I felt homesick in my own home, just wishing to be someplace that I felt comfortable in, someplace that I could truly call home.

Even I was confused, what do you mean you want to go home? You are literally at home. But deep down, I knew I wasn't, not really. I hadn’t settled in. I hadn’t let myself grow an attachment to anything: not to people, not to my furniture, not even to the walls of my own room. I didn’t care about a single object in my room because I knew, eventually, I would lose it. 

It always circles back to being a military brat, moving every 1-2 years from house to house. You might stop forming attachments like other kids do. It slowly becomes an instinct to keep some distance. It is like building walls around yourself to keep you from missing anything from a previous move. You don’t memorize the creaks on the stairs or learn how to close a broken door. You just exist in a space and prepare to leave it.

It wasn’t until my third year of living in the same place, the longest I’ve lived anywhere, that my parents told me I could redecorate my room. “We’ll be here for a while,” they said. I wanted to be excited, but I couldn’t force myself to be.

Redecorating my room meant I would be getting rid of the scratched and beaten furniture that I had always had growing up. The furniture that I had no care for would finally be replaced. Getting new furniture meant I’d be settling in for real, and that felt so strange. It felt almost risky.

Nonetheless, I went through it. I redecorated my room. Bit by bit, I started to get rid of everything and replace the old with things that felt like me. It took a few months before my room was together. It was a complete mess for a while. For a few days, I had to sleep without a bed. But eventually, it felt comfortable. It was full of new light, oak furniture, and beach-themed decorations. Even my walls were completely covered with pictures and decor. And then, after another year, I realized something even weirder: I was attached.

I finally built something that I cared about - a place where I felt settled and comfortable, a place that made me excited each time I came home from school. It wasn't just the objects, but the room itself. Sure, I could bring some of these things with me if we had to move again, but sadly I couldn’t bring the squeaky hardwood floors, the bumpy tan walls, or the way the house smelled when I came home from school. Those would stay behind. And that’s okay, because now I know what it takes to find a home.

You have to break down your own walls and let yourself make a space for yourself, not just live in it. You have to build your comfort piece by piece. And most of all, you have to let time do its work. It took quite a while, but I finally learned how to call another house home.