Home is a feeling

I have very few memories of my earliest childhood home. My dad holding me on our small wooden deck and pointing at planes soaring by over our heads. Him pushing me on a small toddler bike with training wheels on the street while I wave to my mom in the window and street lamps light the way. Sitting on our couch and watching “Finding Nemo”. It was a townhouse, not much of what I remember, in a suburb of northern Virginia. When my mom became pregnant, we moved into my true childhood home to make room for the four of us.

I apparently was very upset and clutched my pink tattered blanket, creatively named “Blanksey” for comfort. Even worse, my new younger sibling turned out to be a boy. Life sucked. But I quickly got over it when I started becoming accustomed to the seemingly boundless space of the new house and our neighborhood. If you imagine typical American suburbia, with a collection of white stucco, red brick and grey stone looking houses, you are basically picturing my childhood street. Off of a soon-to-be busy main road, I grew up in the reach of a small forest backing up to another row of houses, a barely 10-minute drive to the country club where I spent many pool days and a four minute drive to my elementary school.

I had a childhood of hot summer sprinkler days, fall football parties with your classic array of sweets and salty snacks, family movie nights (back when Blockbuster was also still a thing, may it RIP) and park playdates at one of our favorite four parks. I was raised a true 2000’s kid and had very comfortable and privileged early years. I can only look back with fond memories. But at 12 and a half years old, I had the comfort of my home erased.

I’m not sure I can recall when they announced it, but at some point my parents tired of the constant sound of cars and story after story of tragic pedestrian or animal accidents due to the business of the roads. The hustle and bustle lifestyle that reached our Virginian suburb was no longer as enticing as it had been when they had moved to D.C in their 20s and now with a family of five and three pets, they were searching for something different. I didn’t understand in the moment because all I had ever known was within two states, with my mom’s family mostly residing in Maryland and a drive through the rolling hills of the countryside away. My dad’s family from Louisiana typically came up to visit us or my dad’s sister and her family who also lived in the area. I said goodbye to my childhood friends and we moved in October of 2013 to Charleston, South Carolina.

Although only two states away, I immediately noticed a difference. There were swaying palm trees everywhere, just like in Hilton Head Island, where we had family vacations every year. The air felt thicker and instead of a creek flanked by narrow forests close by, there were marshes that faded to rivers and a salty, earthy scent in the air. The girls were tanner and wore preppy clothing. People used the word “y’all” not ironically. It was all unfamiliar.

I was at the cusp of being a teenager but not quite there yet. I had ceased playing with my Barbies but still wanted to run around playing hide ‘n seek. I wasn’t into makeup yet but was self-conscious of my appearance, with my pre-pubescent longer legs and short torso which made for awkward proportions. And now I was in a completely new environment.

I had a confidence as a kid. The kind that made me sing and happily dance around in public without caring. When I finally got my hands on our family computer, I filmed myself lip syncing and did photoshoots with filters I liked. I eagerly led my cousins in games I made up and felt like the queen of my birthday parties.

Age 12 was the last time I felt that. I’ve been working for years now to get that lost confidence back. Somewhere between frying myself as a teenager to be as tan as my friends and becoming hyper-aware that I talk too fast and get anxious, which causes my talking speed to worsen and for me to stumble over words like I barely speak English, it faded.

Our first house in Charleston was on an island, where we still live to this day. It was a dark blue-gray, a color I actually find hard to explain because it doesn’t quite fit in either category. My mother was not a fan of the color, or really the house in general. It was new but tall and with many stairs. But I didn’t mind it. I have many memories of that house. My former childhood au-pair came to live with us again at one point and lived in the third floor bedroom, which I skipped up to nearly everyday to hang out with her. I made my first neighborhood friends from that house. I played outside and rode bikes with my brothers in our driveway. It wasn’t the same feeling as my childhood home, we had to fit more for the house than the house fit for us. We became the puzzle pieces instead of the puzzle. It was a new feeling.

A few years later, my mom drove me somewhere on the island and wouldn’t tell me where it was. Finally, our SUV pulled into a cracked-shell driveway, a typical coastal Southern design, of a light grey shingled house that nearly backed up to the marsh. When we went inside, it was clear that it was smaller than our other house, but it was way more modern. I was mostly in awe of the view, which stretched out over the marsh on the side of the house. You could see it from the tall windows of the living room or from the open-air porch. It seemed brighter, more inviting. My mom and I were sold. The only caveat was that it was a rental, only for five years, until the owners decided to move from California.

The temporary aspect didn’t faze me. I had just started to become accustomed to picking up my things and moving on. I was now at a private, all-girls school where I was thriving after the uncomfortable and strange year that 7th grade was. I knew I could have the same friends and the same school. That was what mattered the most to me. At the time, only one friend lived on the island with me. The rest were scattered across the city. I was at the age where I was starting to anticipate gaining the first big step of American teenage independence — learning how to drive. At the last house, I had really said goodbye to my first teenage bedroom, the memories I had with my au-pair who was like an older sister to me, and the younger friends I made on the street.

At our new house, we enjoyed dinners on our porch watching the sunset paint the sky at night and birds fly over the marsh. We chatted to our neighbors, finding out we had an older couple on our left and a family on our right with two friendly labs. This was truly the home of my teenage years, where I lived during high school and the beginning of college. Where I learned to drive, anxiously backing up in our snaking driveway while trying not to run over the perfectly groomed bushes and palmetto plants on the sides. Where I was first busted as a sophomore, during my rebellious phase, and underwent some serious punishment and reflection. Where we spent COVID times together, with all the screaming and crying and confusion. Where we lost one of my childhood cats to the wild coyote population and it was the first time I saw my mom haunted. Where I then lost my childhood cat, my feline best friend, to the wild surrounding our house. She vanished like a ghost in her old age, before I had the chance to cry and properly say goodbye.

That was truly the first time I ever experienced grief and loss. Hot anger and tears. Pure joy and bliss. A rollercoaster of emotions that lasted years, ever changing and turbulent, but steadfast returning to a place of peace towards the end. When we left, I packed up my things like I had the last house. But really I was packing years of memories and emotions. The house itself was just the space for the memories. Once we left, it felt foreign. When we opened the car door to drive away for the last time, I looked back at the house.

The front porch remained as it always had. But this time, I saw my cat sitting at the top step. Waiting as she always had when I got home. She wasn’t really there. But I like to think she was, just one last time. Her tabby coloring easily visible from the end of driveway and tail curled around her. She loved being outside. I waved her goodbye, took a breath and got in the car. The house was good for us. But eventually, when the real owners let us know they were moving there, it felt like it was right, at least to me. We had outgrown the house, and the house us.

The next house was off the island. It was a bit of a “fixer-upper” but had some charm. I loved the fenced in backyard that backed up to a beautiful lake. A basement, which is a rare feature of a Charleston house given that the city is below sea level, allowed for a designated hangout space and gaming room for my brothers. No more screaming fights over late night Xbox games that kept me awake and made me go insane. The neighbors welcomed us with open arms. But mostly, at this point I kept repeating to my parents that I had really stopped caring much for where we lived. I no longer lived at home anymore, I was in college and in the in-between of teenage years and adulthood where I lived only part-time at our house during holidays and breaks. My friends were not always home when I was and I liked being around family when I was home since I spent months away.

When my parents announced that we were moving back to the island a little over a year later, I shrugged and nodded my head. I wasn’t really shocked. I knew they missed a lot about where we used to live and were craving something different. At this point, I was an upperclassman in college and was preoccupied with my journalism job, attending UGA football games and juggling my classes. I was happy mainly because I knew they were happy. I liked the old house but I had few memories attached to it. Since moving, I don’t think of it a lot.

We moved into a spacious condo with a balcony that overlooked a grassy field, soon to be construction site, and a small pond with a fountain. My mom did as she always did, decorating the place to give it a homey feel with her touch of coastal-themed decor and white to nude, beachy tones. Some work was done to give the condo a newer and warmer feel. When I first saw it, I liked that we could sit out on the balcony drinking wine and watching the sunset from our third story viewpoint. I liked that it was close to the entrance and exit of the island, but only a bike ride away from the gym and pool. My brother was back to hopping on his bike and riding it everywhere and my other brother was once again at the school he was at before we had moved. My dad could ride his bike to his tennis matches and my mom was close to all her friends. It seemed as if everyone had settled into their place. And then there was me.

I was now forever the one who comes back, the one who causes the puzzle to shift when I’m home so we can all be accommodated. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, it’s just life. The same thing will happen to both of my brothers when they leave, and we all will become part-time residents of a home we once lived at full-time. But my time has passed. Sometimes our houses feel more like hotels to me, short-term and comfortable until it’s time to leave for somewhere else. I appreciate them for what they are to me — a place for my family to live, a place for me to stay when I’m back.

Whenever my dad asks if I’ve been attached to any of these houses, I tell him no. I haven’t felt like I’ve had a home in the sense of roots and years of memories since my childhood home. I haven’t been able to glance at a faded stain on the bathroom wall, admire new paint or get a feeling of nostalgia in a long time. I’ve made peace with that. The word “home” has been slowly redefined for me over the years, but it always remains the place where my family lives. Because I will always feel most comfortable with them, even if I have no real connection to the foundation and its interior.

Now, I’ve had the opportunity to live short-term in Spain. Being forced to acclimate to a new culture is never easy and truthfully the hardest part was going in knowing I was going to live with people I didn’t know and have to make friends all over again. This is the longest I’ve been away from my family and friends at home, which has been a challenge within itself. It’s forced me to grow out of my comfort zone and rediscover myself. But it’s one of the most beautiful things that can happen to a person and I’m forever grateful.

My home has been many places. Sevilla, Spain, various houses in Charleston, South Carolina, my college town of Athens, Georgia and Leesburg, Virginia. They will always be a part of me in their own special ways. They have made me the person that I am.

But when I think about what home really means to me, I think of people. Whether it be myself, my family, my roommates or my colleagues, this is how I now define home. It’s the belly laugh moments, the long walks in the sun, the quiet reading time with those around you, the family dinners and homemade cocktails, the tears when you leave.

Home is not a place. It’s a feeling.