The transformation of home

Home is an escape from one reality into a different one. Home used to be a place where once I entered through the door, all worries about school and people slipped off my body like raindrops on Gore-Tex.

Home was filled with laughter from my younger brother, sharing the stupid adventures he and his friends got up to the night before. Home was my mother constantly cooking, having left her passion for interior design to bring up her two children. The aroma of homemade food floated throughout my home and suffocated any other desire from my mind. Home was my rescue dogs barking when they heard my dad pull into the garage, returning from yet another day of tedious work.

Home, like people, changes. Home went from being a space of unconditional reassurance and ease to a place that causes me more stress than the concrete bubble of university.

Home represents all the things falling apart. My brother has left for college, depriving rooms of his sound.

Home represents sickness as my dad carries around tubes attached to his young yet struggling body. Cancer sucks. My mom still cooks — but out of distraction and for the pleasure of others more than personal interest. Home feels different now.

Home can transform. It can adapt to new situations without moving itself.

Home isn’t perfect, and it never was. There were cracks that never appeared visible but they become apparent as I age. Home is simply a place that encompasses family but does not define its comfort. Home has become the feeling of connection with my family on new levels that are unfamiliar, yet we will push through together, united.

Home becomes more than a space to escape reality, but a constant support through life’s changes. Home is in our hearts — always.