Rediscovering home: how returning to my childhood home feels different over time
What is “home,” really? Is it a place, a feeling, or maybe a memory we carry with us, even as life pulls us in different directions?
I just returned to my parents’ house—the one that has felt like home more than anywhere else. Five rooms, five bathrooms, each corner filled with memories. My family has moved a lot over the years: Rome, Tehran, Istanbul, Budapest, Houston, NYC, Kuala Lumpur. Growing up, we rarely stayed anywhere longer than four years, a life of packing up just as a place started feeling like home. But this place in Rome has been the constant since 2010, the place that always waited for me no matter where else life took us.
And yet, the moment I walked into what used to be my room, I felt something shift. The couch where I used to throw my dance clothes is gone, replaced by my mom’s painting supplies. My old space has a new life, and even undressing here doesn’t feel like it once did. The bathroom my sister and I once shared is different too. Where we each had our own sink, now both are hers. And my old closet holds their clothes instead of mine, quiet reminders of how time has filled in the spaces I left behind.
Yet one room never changes: my parents’ room. Right now, they’re away, so it’s where I ended up sleeping. This room isn’t mine, but it holds the truest sense of “home” for me. It’s where my parents waited when I’d come back late from nights out with my university friends, where I’d go after school to tell my mom about my day, where I’d come to cry when things felt overwhelming. This room has held every part of me over the years, from laughter to heartache.
The house still smells like “home.” That familiar scent wraps around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed. And with every step, I feel my family’s warmth, their hospitality, reminding me this place is still mine, even as their lives have grown to fill it. But I realize I’ve grown into my own rhythm, too, a new life in a different neighborhood in Rome. It’s a bit far from my friends, so I sometimes sleep over when Luca is on business trips. At first, leaving this house was hard—I couldn’t imagine feeling settled anywhere else. But slowly, I carved out my own space, and it’s become a kind of home too.
So, I’m here, and I belong. And yet, I feel like a guest. I’m a part of this place, but I’m also apart from it. It’s home, but it’s also somewhere else now. And maybe that’s just part of growing up. We carry pieces of all our homes within us, each one shaping who we are. This house will always be the place where my friends slept over, where we had family dinners, Christmases, and moments that stretched beyond the four-year limit. It’s a constant, yet somehow it’s changed, just as I have.So, is this really home? In some way, it always will be—even as I keep finding “home” somewhere else. I think everyone feels this way when they go back to their parent’s house, whether it’s across the world or just across town. It’s that strange mix of comfort and change, of belonging and feeling like a visitor. Maybe that’s the magic of “home”—it grows and shifts with us, even as it stays in one place. What does “home” feel like to you when you return? Do you feel like you’re stepping back into the past, or finding something entirely new?
