The question “Where are you from?” is a difficult one for me to answer. When I was 14, my family moved three hours away from my hometown. I lived there for four years and then I moved again for college. I now have lived in three cities in 19 years.
It bothered me that I didn’t know where I was from. I don’t have a strong connection to any cities, houses, or football teams. I haven’t had the same best friend since childhood. I don’t sleep in the room my crib used to sit in. I haven’t gone to the same church since I was baptized. I didn’t go the high school I grew up looking at. I don’t live near any of my extended family anymore—I don’t even live near my parents anymore. There is not a single person who has made it through each phase of my life. When I put it that way, it seems sad. There is nothing tangible that defines me.
Moving is a unique experience. If you have never moved, you do not know what it is like. I left everything that once defined who I was. The first time I left everything that comprised my time growing up. I left the driveway I broke my leg on, my school friends, and my big front yard with the stop sign in it. It was awful for me. I literally threw a fit at the age of 14 when my parents told me—pretty childish but it was a dramatic experience. I had just made friends I liked and then had to leave them. I lived in that house since I was two years old. I wasn’t able to try out for the dance team at my high school anymore. I was never going to jump on the trampoline in my backyard or sit in the kitchen doing my homework again.
But I did it. I moved and I survived. Slowly but surely, I unpacked my things into the new house, made new relationships and knew where everything was in the town. My room felt comfortable, I became excited to go to school, and I put down roots in that place. Going back to my old town felt more like a visit than going home. After about two years, I returned from a trip to see friends and family. I was glad to be home. That is when I knew that I had finally settled in there.
Of course, that did not last. The second time was only a year ago. I moved away for college. It wasn’t as hard for me as it was for other kids. Many of my friends have never had their world shaken before, so the thought of having to start over terrified them. Some didn’t even go away for school. I love the feeling of starting over. It is refreshing to go to a place where no one knows you. They don’t remember you with braces, know who your math teacher was, or the type of person you were. You get to be whoever you want. That wasn’t the hard part for me. The hard part was admitting that childhood was officially over. I wasn’t going to see my family every day, and I had to be in charge of myself. But once again, I did it.
So, I don’t have a home. The place I live and the people I live near have changed. I have to make other things define me. Not having a home made me more independent. It not only made me try harder with my relationships, but it also made me more cynical about keeping in contact with everyone. If I feel content somewhere or with someone, I consider that my home. Maybe home is not a person or a place, but a feeling.
