Demi's Diems: Coming Home
Demi Lawrence is a freshman telecommunications journalism major and writes "Demi's Diems" for the Daily News. Her views do not necessarily agree with those of the newspaper. Write to Demi at email@example.com.
I see home in the eyes of my father as he hugs me for the first time in five weeks. I see home in the smiles on the faces of my old high school friends as we embrace and catch up on lost time. I see home in the purple walls of my childhood room, still plastered with One Direction posters that I was too lazy to take down when I moved away.
I see home in The Well, the quaint coffee shop off of Lantern Rd in Downtown Fishers. I see home in the all too familiar traffic on the I-69 overpass going to Hamilton Town Center. I see home everywhere as I am back in Fishers, Indiana for fall break. I see home, I smell home, I hear home… but why don’t I feel home?
I don’t feel home in the new bank that wasn’t there before off of Olio Rd in Saxony district. I don’t feel home in the laughs shared over inside jokes I was not present to be part of with my high school friends. I don’t feel home as my church sings four worship songs now instead of three. I don’t feel home in the events missed, the jokes not included in, the buildings unknown of and the songs I am no longer knowledgable off. And that’s neither my fault nor my hometowns’ fault; it’s no one’s.
This is the struggle of simultaneously having two homes, yet no home at all.
I see home in the squeezing hugs of my friends as we are reunited in Muncie after fall break. I see home in the white board on my dorm door that has my roommate and I’s names on. I see home in a Noyer bowl. I see home in the Bell Tower. I see home, I smell home, I hear home… but why don’t I feel home?
I don’t feel home in the cold, while bathrooms in which I have to wear shoes in. I don’t feel home in the lofted, twin sized beds. I don’t feel home in the swiping of my BSU ID to simply walk through a door.
So I ask myself… where exactly is “home”?
The day before I left to move to Muncie in August, my girlfriend and I sat on the couch in my basement and cried. We cried a lot, though we didn’t have much reason to cry. Muncie and Fishers are only a 45 minute drive from one another. In between sniffles, I mumbled. “I’ll miss home”. My girlfriend, being as wise as she always is, comforted me with the words “Muncie will just be your temporary home for four years”. It may not be home for long, but for now it's become just what I need it to be.
Muncie has become a makeshift home these past couple months. When I am walking with friends and they ask me to go somewhere, I’ll say “let me stop at home first” when I really mean “let me stop at my dorm first”. After a long night in Bracken, I think to myself “time to go home” rather than “time to go back to the dorm”.
Through all of this I’ve learned that home is what you make it, home is inside all of us. Home is a hobby, a routine or a lifestyle. I find home personally
through religion, and through the things I enjoy to do in my off time, such as photography. You may find home in a person, in a song or in a season.
So really I shouldn’t be asking “where is home?”, but rather “what is home?”
Home is in all of us. Home is not necessarily a place, but rather a feeling, to feel at home with someone, or a certain location. I feel at home in my queen sized bed, smelling the cinnamon rolls my father is cooking on a Saturday morning in the kitchen downstairs. The feeling of “home” is warm, fuzzy like your favorite blanket.
It’s not feeling like you have to mask yourself for someone or something in order to be accepted. Home is true, home is raw. Home is you.
The struggle of finding “home” I feel affects every college student, freshman to senior. And I think the real moment where you become an adult is where you are able to call wherever you are in that instant “home” because you have all you need inside of you.
The world is a scary place, growing up is a scary thing. It’s okay, we all are doing this thing together. You’re not alone because we all are trying to find wherever or whatever “home” is. But when you do find it, when you do feel at home somewhere, grasp onto it and never let it go.
Home is there, you just have to look for it.