With the holidays approaching, and all of us gathering our belongings to trudge home and celebrate with our families, I thought I would experiment with the word “home” and what it actually means. Throughout my life, I’ve found home in many places. I found it on the lacrosse field, where I felt free and fulfilled and happy. I found it in the hallways of my high school, where I grew from a naive 14-year-old girl to an independent and strong-willed 18-year-old woman. I found home in the pages of my favorite novels. I found home in the presence of my sister. I found home in the songs I’ve listened to for years.
All of these places are considered home in my heart, but this year, my definition of home changed. Home changed from being the big house made out of stone in Sunwood Farms, where I had spent my entire life, to a smaller and less thrilling version, with a small front yard, 30 minutes away from the town I had grown to love. The first time I came home to find a for sale sign on my front yard, and brochures of my house on the kitchen table, I cried. I cried for all the times I had spent in that house, I cried for my beautiful room, which was my most powerful sanctuary, I cried for the passage of time. It was only a year later I moved into my new home. But a year can prepare you for a lot.
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Throughout my first tumultuous year of college, I learned the true meaning of home. Away from the place I had found love, security, and happiness, I had to start over, and rebuild. I had to rebuild what Home meant to me, as I would never again reside in the same place for such an extended amount of time. I had to rediscover the things that made me feel happy, content, and fulfilled. The things that made me feel okay, that brought me comfort. I had to start over and find a home within me—which is surprisingly a lot harder than it sounds.
But as any person battling an inner conflict has to, I tried. I tried hard. I tried to find Home in the things I used to—in running, in reading, in listening to music. I joined a sorority, hopeful that I would find the home so many other girls claimed to have. I called my grandmother more, I went for long drives down back roads, I re-watched every episode of "Entourage." And eventually—it happened. I discovered a place within myself where I could go to hide. I found a place in myself I could flourish, I could explore, I could rest. This space stood tall and firm, unable to be broken into or tainted. It resided deep inside me, all of my heart and soul protecting it with unbreakable force. I found a space where I could build a home within myself, and I did it. And every day, I was home.
Coming home from college to an entire new house, neighborhood, and zip code was less than easy. But as I sat on our old couch in our new living room with my mom, I found I was already home. I was home in the sound of my mom’s voice, in the serenity of my own thoughts, in the presence of the ones I loved. I had a fridge with food in it, a bed awaiting my slumber, a roof protecting me from rain and snow. And I was home.
Home is not a noun, nor can it be minimized and limited to a single definition. Home is a feeling. Home is what you consider your most familiar and happiest state. As college kids, we’re all struggling to find a home that’s not dependent upon location. A home that is sustainable and everlasting, that can serve and grow us. “Home is where the heart is”—so start there. Start with your heart, with the things that bring you inner happiness and tranquility. Start with the people you love and surround yourself by them. Build a home out of the intangible.
You are the ruler of your own fate, destiny, and happiness. Become the builder of this home you are meant to be. I promise you—it will be worth it.
