This past year (2020) we were told to stay in our homes, work from our homes, and go to school in our homes. Although I have never been an introvert, I followed to the best of my abilities. I don’t do well when alone or bored and crave social interaction most of the time I spend awake, so I had to find a way to cope with my new reality. I chose to consider what my home truly is.
My home is with my parents, who I didn’t get to see for months until my Mamaw passed. My home is in the house I became a teenager in, where I bottled up angst and left as soon as I could, only to miss them every single day. The house my sister raised two newborns in. The house my grandma’s stuff lives in now.
My home is in Vine Grove, a place I can escape to when the city gets too loud.
My home is the house I live in with my other six roommates. It is loud, always messy, beautiful in the morning when no one is awake, beautiful at night when we’re all together, and filled with the people I love most in the world. My home is my bedroom, where I simultaneously mourned my grandma and battled the COVID strain from her funeral in.
My home is split — a conglomeration of people and places that keep me sane, support me, love me, comfort me, and make the hard days softer. My home is not any public place I lost and sometimes miss. I have become a homebody now.