My ordinary morning routine starts in a dreary, colorless bedroom, where I wake up facing blank walls and bare floors aside from the occasional dusty Lego set. I sift through my clothes either in my beaten carry-on suitcase sprawled open by the door or the pile of clothes I’ve lazily ignored from the previous night’s laundry atop the bed. I grab my toiletries bag from the side pocket of my suitcase and bring it to the closest bathroom to clean up and prepare for the day. Once I’m ready, I return the bag to my suitcase and attempt to stuff the rest of my belongings back into their respective spots, trying my best to keep everything tucked away before heading out.
I’ve gotten pretty good at this kind of spare living. Since my parents’ divorce, I’ve moved between different living situations on an awkwardly inconsistent and often frantic schedule. I’m never certain about the timing of my next switch, so I’ve learned to be prepared for sudden changes at a moment’s notice. Thus — in nomadic fashion — my wardrobe, school supplies and other necessities fit snugly into my suitcase, backpack and whatever spare grocery bags I can fit over my shoulder. As I’ve adjusted to my minimalist lifestyle, the walls of my luggage have become just as familiar to me as the walls of any apartment or house.
Having left countless physical possessions from my day-to-day life behind as my sense of belonging has strayed from a physical home, I still feel pangs of jealousy when I’m reminded of the comforts I’ve lost out on over the years. Naturally, it’s hard for me to escape the envy that arises after seeing personal closets lined with rows of clothes, walls decorated with vibrant posters, mounted custom artworks, arrays of collectible items and everything else that defines others’ homes — amenities that are no longer part of my life.
Erratic echoes of spite and frustration amid the chaos of my wandering survival often fuel my longing for the home I once had. Yet, between these fleeting moments of resentment, I’m quick to remind myself of what I’ve gained from my years on the move, which may well be more valuable than anything I’ve left behind: a greater appreciation for the few things I still carry with me and the everyday experiences that define what home truly means to me.
My home isn’t the blank walls I wake up between or the weathered baggage into which my life is crammed. It’s the marathon gaming sessions in the comfort of my obnoxiously loud, bulky gaming laptop; the flurried last-minute stuffing of wrestling shoes, tangled charging cables and excess camera equipment into my grotesquely worn yet unwaveringly loyal expandable hamper; the silent, contemplative stares into glimmering late-night views in the reassuring comfort of my friends’ presence; the endless chases after my parents’ dogs to rescue my favorite pairs of soon-to-be torn socks from the clutches of their greedy paws.
Going home, for me, is a feeling. A return to a haven built not of wood and canvas, but of happy memories and loving relationships. An embrace of a sanctuary that travels with me wherever I choose to bring it, faithfully mine.
