There's No Place Like Home

I left home for the first time the fall after COVID-19 began. After spending the majority of the spring and summer cooped up at home, I was itching to get away. At the time, when I thought of “leaving home” I only thought of where I was going and not what I was leaving behind. 

I had this perfect image in my head of what moving away from home was going to be. But, the reality of living amidst a pandemic shattered this picture and left me scrambling to pick up what pieces remained. My transition from home felt very much like an uprooting, similar to how Dorothy travels from her home in Kansas into Oz–a tumultuous cyclone whisks me away from everything I’ve ever known, and I crash down into a new, foreign place with no clue of what comes next. The fall hit me harder than I’d like to admit.

Ironically, I never thought of “home” more than I did those first few weeks I was away from it. To me, home was always just something that was there. The white house with the black roof. A bedroom painted turquoise. And of course, all the memories made inside. I longed for the constant comfort of being protected by those walls. But unlike Dorothy, I didn’t have ruby red slippers. There would be no clicking my heels and magically returning to my childhood bedroom. Instead, I did the only thing there was to do– waited the semester out and returned home for winter break. 

I was eager to return to the comfort of home, but once again, the image I had pictured did not mirror reality. Home was still home… the same, scraped hardwood floors. The same number of steps leading down into the entryway. Nothing had changed, physically. But home felt different, like something was missing. 

I never quite found the words to put this changed-ness into words. I’m no longer searching for them, either, as I have since found a quote that captures the feeling perfectly:  “The truth is that, once we leave our childhood places and start to make up our lives, armed only with what we know and who we are, we come to understand that the real secret of the ruby slippers is not that “there’s no place like home” but, rather, that there is no longer any such place as home—except, of course, for the homes we make, or the homes that are made for us, in Oz. Which is anywhere—and everywhere—except the place from which we began.” This comes from a Salman Rushdie piece in the New Yorker, titled “Out Of Kansas,” about The Wizard of Oz. 

When I returned home, it didn’t feel the same because the white house with the black roof was no longer the only home I knew. I had made other homes for myself– the dorm room where I nestled into bed and spent sleepless nights studying, the cafe I sat at each afternoon while catching up on homework, the steep, scenic paths I traveled every day. When I return to my childhood bedroom now, I cannot say it is the only home I know. 

As someone who takes comfort in constant variables and predictability, realizing my definition of “home” had changed was an especially scary thing to come to terms with. But after a year of living outside the walls of my childhood home, I realized there is a different kind of comfort that comes from understanding home is now what I make it. Home is what I choose it to be– I can establish roots wherever I wish, I can seek solace in spots that make me feel good, I can collect places like momentos and store them in a bag labeled “home.” With each new home I collect, I feel a greater sense of freedom. Who am I is not tied to a particular set of walls. This realization has made me want to explore more, to see how many other incredible places I can call home. 

My definition of “home” has evolved, and with it I have, too. Now, transitioning to new places feels much easier. Landing in new locations and situations feels less like a tornado, and more like an amusement park ride– it’s supposed to be a bit scary, but it’s also exhilarating and fun. I no longer think the phrase “leaving home behind” is accurate. Because now, I bring pieces of my many homes along with me, wherever I go.