To Build a Home | personal essay
Sometimes, I envision a cul-de-sac consisting of 16 houses: 16 drastically different houses. I picture my feet as they pass over the thin cracks in the concrete of surrounding driveways. Various sounds emerge from each home as I make my way around the abnormally large circle, pondering my surroundings. The first home is encompassed by towering Douglas Fir trees, while an assortment of desert cacti encloses the second to last house. I hear laughter between siblings echoing in the near distance and watch bedroom lights switching on and off like fireflies. This 16-home cul-de-sac is what comes to mind when I think about the homes I grew up in. After their divorce, my parents each jumped from one separate house to another. Assembling a cardboard box from Home Depot was a skill that I had mastered by the age of ten; living out of my grey Under Armour duffle became second nature. Contrary to what one might think, the moves never got easier, and I never walked out of a home for the last time with dry eyes. As I grew older, I longed to feel settled. I longed to live in a home for enough time to become comfortable within its walls. I longed to free my mind of the uncertainty that had followed me for years.
Eighth grade rolled around, and I found myself filling yet another Home Depot box. However, this time I was moving halfway across the country. I packed up my childhood with 15 hours’ notice and soon stood over the cracks of a new driveway in Kansas. After living in an apartment for a few months, my mom and stepdad settled on a house. This one lasted for a record-breaking two years, but our next home was different. This new one solely belonged to me and my mom. As we hung our family photos, listened to Michael Buble on full volume while making pasta, and watched tacky romcoms in the basement, the grey walls and white railing on the stairs became ours. I had been fantasizing about a home like this for years, though several elements were nevertheless missing: my brothers, my dad, and the feeling of comfort I was always seeking. At this moment I felt defeated; I grasped what I’d been reaching for my whole life, yet I still felt incomplete.
For years, I dwelt on what I didn’t possess. I thought, “I’d be far happier if I never moved,” or “I wish I still lived there.” These thoughts consumed my mind, and it wasn’t until recently that I realized they were completely aimless. I was so blinded by the past that I couldn’t appreciate the life in front of me. The only person preventing me from finding courage, happiness, and peace was myself. I had been letting my physical surroundings heavily influence my feelings. From then on, I made a commitment to finding constants in my life that ground me - no matter where my physical home resides. Minor aspects of my life that previously went unnoticed became significant in my search for stability. It wasn’t long before I discovered that my 16-home childhood gave me a unique perspective on my surroundings. I now understand that I am at home where I find myself.
We often forget that we will always have control over our decisions in life. With curiosity, I chose to find my personal constants and use them to locate my home within. Home is more than a physical building in a cul-de-sac; home is love; home is vulnerability; home is the multifaceted elements that make me who I am. Every day brings inevitable changes that become additional aspects of home. I don’t have life figured out, for that is impossible. However, after 21 years and 16 houses, I finally feel comfort in knowing that my true home has always been within.
