My sense of home has changed significantly throughout my life, especially during college. I’ve lived in five different places during the past four years; frankly, it’s gotten quite tiring. Throughout college, I’ve been excited to “settle down” and live in the same spot for more than three to four months at a time. Having my bike and bed in the same location is a dream that never felt like it could be realized until after graduation. I miss the gray Maruishi bike with the leather seat and red tires. It’s sitting in the garage my dad built in my parent’s backyard back home in Minneapolis.
But where is “back home”? I’ve spent more time in Massachusetts these past four years than at “home” in Minneapolis. I even spent more time abroad in 2023 than I spent in Minneapolis during the entirety of my college experience. With a brief stint in the Bay Area, California, and another in Seattle, Washington, college has felt like a world tour tasting different living situations and locations. From paying an absurd amount of money for a two-bedroom apartment in Seattle to paying an equally absurd amount of money for a room in a barn-shaped house living with three 28-year-old recent MBA graduate men to living in a 5-bedroom flat in New Zealand (though spending a significant amount of time sleeping outside, in hostel bunk beds, or a car), I’ve had, what I think is a fair share of living and sleeping experiences. I even counted how many different places I slept for a full night, which ended up being 24 in 2023. As of April 11, 2024, I have slept in 11 different places this year.
However, I believe that sleeping somewhere doesn’t make that place home. Sleeping is a simple placeholder that represents one night closer to being home. But, is a place my home if I don’t have my gray and red Maruishi? My journals that I’ve written in since third grade? The backyard I grew up in, with bees swarming, chickens cooing, Mom and Micah sunbathing on the bench, and Dad sawing loudly in the garage? The streets I used to ride every day on my skateboard until they were repaved with gravel, changing my daily route? My grandma’s house, a welcome stop for ice cream and chatting on the porch on a hot day before she berated me for not wearing a helmet? This sense of home was crafted throughout my entire life and will never be the same. In fact, it has never been the same – it’s not a moment in time, nor is it a physical place. It’s a series of memories that I visit when I feel like I’m missing something. A melancholy moment when I think of calling my grandpa to wish him a happy birthday. Pictures I show my college friends that they will never fully understand. An equal amount of pictures I hide from my friends because I don’t have the courage to let them understand.
Wherever I find home next will have to be good. It’ll have to be great to compare to the home I left four years ago in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Deep down, I know it’ll never compare, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth a shot. As I reflect on the past four years of my life, resenting yet missing the place I tried so hard to leave, I look forward to creating a new, different sense of home. Maybe when I have my bike in my garage and my bed in my bedroom in Seattle, I’ll finally feel like something is right. Or maybe, I’ll think about the life I left behind in Amherst, and revisit that series of memories, wishing I could return.