Between Doors: Redefining Home
Artwork: Lee Olson
Last year when I was home for Winter Break, my mom and I were in the laundry room folding towels when she turned to me and asked if I still considered my family home “home”. I said of course, and I meant it. God bless my roommates, but walking into a house that perpetually smells like burnt popcorn and last weekend’s pregame doesn’t have the same homey quality as my parents' place. But there it is, now it's my parents place, a title I’m used to hearing my older cousins call my aunt's house or watching Meg Ryan go “home” for Christmas in Sleepless in Seattle.
My hometown is a 20 minute drive from campus, not accounting for traffic. When I decided on going to the University of Minnesota, this seemed like a disadvantage. I’m a huge family person, but I had always thought I’d be living far from home when I left the nest. I thought this was a marker for my entry into adulthood, and thus devalued the legitimacy of my transition. If I could run home into my parents arms when I had a bad day, then I’m not a true, bonafide, adult.
I quickly learned that it wasn’t necessarily how much distance there was between me and my family, it was the fact that there was any at all. For 18 years, I woke up every morning to the sound of music in the kitchen. Our house was always filled with sound — my dad playing the piano, my mom chatting to her sisters on the phone, my sister watching TV in the basement, Cooper the dog barking at squirrels in the backyard. Now, I’m usually met with silence as I turn the key to my college house, except maybe the soft, hurried clicks of my roommates studying on their computers.
But I somehow consider both “home”. There’s a big difference between a home and a house. To me, the distinction lies in the presence of love. Though the walls of my Como house are crawling with squirrels and I fear the roof may cave in the second we are hit with snow, I get to share these discomforts with people I love. If my computer crashes during an exam and I miss the bus home, I know there’s a living room full of friends ready to hear me vent. And when I wake up to a Canvas notification that I aced the presentation I was nervous about, my best friend is in the next room, ready to celebrate over coffee.
So now, I’m walking with my roommate to class, and when she sighs, “I just want to go home,” I find myself asking, “Home-home, or home?” We’ve done our best to make our college house feel more homey—with twinkle lights, rugs, and candles—but there’s still something about the safe, warm quality of your childhood home that’s impossible to recreate. Going back feels like opening a door to childhood, a space that wraps you in familiarity and comfort. I’m grateful that my home still feels that way, and I know I’m lucky to have a loving place to return to. But that’s really what it is now, a place I visit, and there’s a sadness in that shift. My sister and I will likely never live under the same roof again, and time with my parents is now marked by weekends and school breaks.
I’m graduating this spring, and while I’m filled with the usual mix of excitement and nerves about what’s next, one thing I can’t quite picture is what 'home' will look like when I’m truly on my own, or if I’ll even be on my own. There are so many paths to take, each with a door to a new home waiting to be opened. But no matter where I end up, I’m grateful to have my 'home-home' to return to, grounding me through it all.