when home stops feeling like home
Nostalgia, Growth, and the Spaces We Leave Behind
I. places
I recently wrote a poem that had me reflecting on the power of nostalgia and how it relates to homesickness.
For a long time, I’ve felt that nostalgia has such a strong pull on me because I’ve always seen myself as a late bloomer. The milestones that many of my friends reached on a ‘typical’ timeline seemed to elude me, and it left me feeling out of step. While my friends were driving at 15 or 16, I didn’t start until I was 18. When they went directly to college, I took a gap year, unsure of where to begin. They moved into dorms, building independence through late-night conversations and shared spaces—I stayed home until I was 23, navigating familiar walls even as I tried to find my footing.
It became easy to compare myself to them, even to my siblings, as if I was stuck in slow motion while everyone else raced ahead. My mother used to tell me I took my time with things—even when I was born, arriving breech and requiring a C-section. And while there’s no sense in feeling guilt over something so beyond my control, that story haunted me. It felt like an unspoken reminder that I was always just a little out of sync.
This sense of being behind, of moving more slowly, made me crave routine and familiarity. I found comfort in driving the same streets, sleeping in the same bed, and living a life where nothing seemed to change too quickly. So, when I finally left my parents’ home, the weight of change was overwhelming. I decorated for my brother’s birthday even though he wasn’t there, hoping streamers and a homemade sign might fill the space his absence left behind.
For a very long time, I found comfort in routine and familiarity. “Creature of habit”, my parents would say. I enjoyed driving the same streets home. I enjoyed sleeping in the same bed, with the same comforter, and the same furniture.
When I first moved out of my parent’s home, handling the change was incredibly difficult for me. I sat on the floor, crying over pictures of my family. I decorated for my brother’s birthday as if he were there, hoping $1 blue streamers and a homemade sign would be enough to stuff the hole in my heart that it was the first time I wasn’t there to celebrate with him.
So as challenging and uprooting as it was to move from Columbus to St. Louis, I am beyond glad that I did.
However, whenever I would visit what was once “home”, it just wouldn’t be the same. Columbus once held comfort and familiarity for me. But returning only ever reminded me of who I was when I was there.
Anxious. Depressed. Craving love and validation. Being breadcrumbed.
There was a moment when the walls of what I thought was ‘Home’ began to shift irreversibly. After not seeing my family for months, we met up halfway between St. Louis and Columbus. It was a pleasant trip that healed my homesickness. That is until my parents spoke words that drew a line between us, leaving me feeling isolated and judged. Though the specifics of that conversation remain private, the ache it left behind taught me that the places and people I once turned to for unconditional acceptance could also be the source of my deepest wounds.
I held that pain close for a long time, uncertain if I would ever be ready—or willing—to let it go. It was a realization that pushed me further down the path of creating a new Home, one where I was fully known and loved for who I am, not who I was expected to be.
II. people
I remember the first time a person who wasn’t my flesh and blood ever felt like Home. Many people have cycled in and out of this role in my life, which I think contributes to my trust issues, anxiety, and initial closed-off nature. While I’ve made massive strides in this area, I am human and experience moments where the intense desire to have someone let me into their life clashes with the innate need to protect myself from feeling hurt.
Home used to be my family. It used to be my dance friends, my community at church, and my fellow classmates. It used to be the person I was texting constantly, longing to live my life with.
When I had a falling out with the person I believed to be my soulmate, it took me a very long time to figure out who and where my Home was.
I thought I’d crumbled.
I thought the ghosts that haunted my memories and home would linger there forever.
III. rebuilt
I often wonder “What if?”. What if they were still in my life? What if I never left Columbus? What if my parents hadn’t home-schooled me or—
How would things be different?
There’s no true way to know. It took me a long time to realize dwelling on alternate realities wasn’t going to improve the conditions of my current reality. At some point, I would have to determine how much of my idea of Home I could salvage and what wasn’t serving me anymore.
In the process of tearing down the structures of my old ‘home’—both the physical places and the emotional ties that once bound me—I realized I needed to create something new. I wanted a place that didn’t just echo the past, but one that reflected who I had become.
Time and resources have helped me take a sledgehammer to the past. After clearing the debris, chiseling away at the concrete foundation, and building myself from the ground up, I was able to build my new Home piece by piece, block by block, each one representing a lesson learned or a step taken toward healing.
One of the first building blocks was finding stability in myself. I poured energy into learning who I am apart from expectations and who I was in the past. I leaned into my career, supporting students in ways I had once needed support myself. The relationships I chose to keep were built on mutual respect, understanding, and the freedom to grow together. My partner became another cornerstone—a safe place to land, and a reminder that love, when right, isn’t suffocating but freeing.
I’ve added creativity and passion as blocks too—writing, reading, creating things that are entirely mine. Found family became walls to lean on, providing warmth and love when I needed it most. Even the seemingly small moments—the quiet cups of coffee, the shared laughter with friends, the feeling of knowing I am where I’m meant to be—were all pieces of the new foundation I was building.
With each addition, I’ve carved out a Home that feels less like a place to escape and more like one where I can truly belong.
I am Home.
And as it’s said in business, location is everything. The “neighborhood” I’ve moved into is full of found family, my partner, my fulfilling job, and all the good I’ve surrounded myself with.
So while some people will never re-enter my life (and I am more than okay with that), and sometimes returning to a place that felt like home but no longer does is necessary, I feel firm in my resolve.
I think we all experience this messy yet rewarding journey of finding “Home”.
How is your journey going lately?
Until next time,
p.s. here’s the poem that inspired this post:
I miss home.
So I unpack the boxes and store them for next time. Gone are the days of running, arms wide, to my father’s hug and snuggling into the blankets my mother tucks to my chin. The bed creaks a little differently here. There are cars honking and lights flashing and people yelling— I burn my tongue on coffee, trying to get through another 6AM day, but it’s the small things I miss, like the garage code that never changed. In the quiet, I wonder if I remember the smell of his cologne right, or the taste of her go-to meals. The whisper of my father’s stories— do I still hear it, or is it just the echo of a childhood left behind? It’s odd, isn’t it? To miss a place that both created and pressed on the bruise. To return and see they painted around clutter of years stacked high. Now I sit on the couch with my love, thinking How could I ever call it home again? The ties that bind me there, once gentle, now weigh me down, when all I want is to float. It’s not the city I miss, nor the House I called home. It’s the innocence of rewinding VHS tapes over and overspending on Christmas gifts and— I miss it, even as I let it go.