I come from a family that has lived in the same house since I was born. I’ve known the same place in Williamsville, NY, for as long as I’ve lived. I know the area, I know every inch of my house, I grew up in the same bedroom with the same layout, but suddenly, something feels different.
When I began my college journey as a freshman in late August, I remember looking at my childhood bedroom for the last time before I left my home. I remember soaking in all the beauty of the memories in my safe place– a place that was entirely mine.Â
Big blue bags covered the carpet in my bedroom with my whole life packed inside of them– most of my clothes from my closet, photos that once hung around my room, jewelry and makeup from my vanity, and room decor that made the space feel like home.
With the final blue bag in hand, I walk out to the fully loaded car and glance back into my room one last time. As I shut the door, I feel the weight of an ending— and the promise of a new beginning.
A month later, on September 20, I finally went back to visit my home, but something was off. I remember thinking, “Why am I packing to go back home?” It didn’t feel like my home anymore, but rather a distant memory when I stepped foot into my bedroom again. A place that once was my haven just felt like a hotel room I was checking into, not a place I once lived.
I look at my bed that was made from when I left, with the same blanket that lay crumpled at the end of my bed– the one I would snuggle every night up until the day I left. It felt so strange to be back in my room when I realized it no longer felt like home. The warmth and familiarity were gone.
My once personal, intimate room now felt empty and abandoned. As my eyes wandered around my room, I felt more anxious to get back to St. Bonaventure, which was now my new home.Â
How could such a familiar area feel so strange?Â
As I look around my room, my eyes wander around and fall onto my closet. A closet that was once filled with clothes of every color in an organized manner was now empty. My vanity that was once cluttered with makeup products and hair tools is now bare. I noticed little things on my shelves that were moved from the spots they occupied for years.Â
My room, once a sanctuary, now felt like a snapshot from the past—a reminder of the memories and a place I once called home. It was different, but not in a negative way; it was a difference that spoke of growth and independence of the new life I began at college. Although the space no longer felt like home, it carried a new meaning– a bridge between the kid I once was and the person I was becoming.