Home is a tricky concept for college students.
Many of us have lived and grown up in the same place for years with the same friends, family, and surroundings; we have developed expansive roots that have become deep over time. I know for me, I’ve lived in my small Ohio town for my entire life. Our mall has been turned into a hospital, the town itself and the surrounding areas are overrun with corn fields, and the most exciting thing to do on a Friday night is to walk around the local Walmart. I lived in the same house since I was six months old, staring at the same bedroom ceiling for 18 years. Things were, and still are, practically stagnant and oftentimes boring. But it is my home and I love it.
Enter: the summer after senior year of high school. That is the time when things really get serious—at last, you’re out of the high school bubble and preparing to be thrust into the real world. Former classmates scattered; whether it was to different colleges across the country, entering the military, or going straight into the workforce, the world we all once knew was changing.
For most of us, that summer was the time to start getting ready for college and preparing to move away from home for the first time. I was ecstatic to finally be going to college, but I was adamant it would not become my home. BGSU did not have my parents, my grandmas, my brother, my dog, my hometown friends, my bed, my bookshelves, my job… I was terrified. Everyone in all of the college advertising I saw said their college and college town quickly became their home, but how was that possible? I could not fathom how you could call it “home” without all of those things, all of those people.
I moved into my dorm in August and had a breakdown. The dorm room was a shoebox—a cold-looking prison cell where I had to reside for a whole year, without my family and friends around me, living with a stranger. It wasn’t pretty when it was empty. It was a drab and ugly room. I couldn’t fathom living there, making a whole new friend group on my own, away from home and everything I knew.
Slowly though, I made friends and became established in Bowling Green. I would look forward to going back to my dorm and chatting about my day with my roommate, who was once a stranger. I would find delight in looking at the dining hall for new foods I never tried. I loved taking walks around campus, constantly trying to up my step count. I loved laughing and giggling with my friends, staying up a little too late, and neglecting the occasional assignment because we were just having so much fun. I was happy, something I never thought was possible. I continued through my freshman and it ended in a battle with myself. Why was I so sad to leave and head to my hometown for the summer? I was so comfortable here at school. Was that a betrayal of my home?
I entered my sophomore year this year, so excited to go back to school, see my friends, and begin the next phase of my academics. I found myself texting my boyfriend, “I’m home,” after I unpacked all of my stuff into my new dorm room, covering the walls with pictures and memories from the past school year. After sending that text, I stopped for a moment. I’m sure I have mindlessly said it before, but that’s when I realized: I was home. No, it didn’t have my parents, my brother, my dog, my grandmas, my bed, my hometown friends, my bookshelf, or my job. But I was home.
That’s when I realized that calling my university “home” wasn’t a betrayal of my hometown or my parents. This is my home. And so is my hometown. I realized it was okay to fit in at both places; it was okay to have more than one “home.”
It was and still is a struggle to come to grips with the fact that things are changing and to realize that what once was isn’t always what is. But I’ve slowly learned that’s what life is all about: change. I have two homes now—Bowling Green State University and Lexington, Ohio—and you might too.