Growing up with divorced parents, “home” was a confusing concept. We resorted to “Mom’s house” and “Dad’s house” as labels to help sort out the chaos while bouncing back and forth. Between school nights with Mom, weekends back and forth between Dad and grandparents, and almost every summer break practically living at my aunts, I got accustomed to an unintentional gypsy lifestyle.
In high school I thought the cycle would end, but I found myself in a new circle. Bouncing around between friends’ houses and weekend sporting events led to practically living out of my car. A bag was always packed in the backseat and I never left the house without a toothbrush. The busyness didn’t bother me much at the time, I always had something to do or somewhere to go and I never seemed to be alone.
The “four best years of my life” (whoever came up with that saying obviously didn’t go to college) soon came to an end and I found myself gathering all of my scattered belongings and moving into my first dorm. Despite sharing many similarities with a prison cell, I enjoyed the dorm life. It was mine, a place to come home to every night of the week. Little did I know I would be spending the next four years shifting from dorm to home, to apartment, to internship, to new apartment, to home again and repeat it all over again.
I have loved every part of my life. I love that I can get by with just a few belongings, and that I’ve never shied away from an adventure because it would involve shipping out again. But with the lack of permanence, I can’t help dream of the day I walk into a home and never have to leave it.
