Lately I’ve been struggling with this strange, heavy feeling that I don’t really feel at home in my own house. Whenever I think of “home,” my mind still goes straight to the house I grew up in. It still feels like the definition of home to me, even after all these years. My parents sold that house a few years ago so it’s not like I can even visit it,
But memories of cosy Christmases, being ill and wanting to stay at home. Now I can’t wait to go out, I hate being in the house, I feel totally suffocated.
This house doesn’t spark anything within me. It’s small and pokey, not at all what I had imagined my adult “home” would be. We bought it because it’s what we could afford, and I’m grateful we have a place to live, but it’s never matched the picture I’d carried in my head.
What feels even stranger is knowing that this house - the one that feels like nothing to me - will be the place my 7 year old DS forms his core memories. This will be his definition of home. His childhood, his safe place, his stories - all built inside walls that I’m still trying to connect with.
It’s such an odd mix of gratitude and sadness. I want to feel rooted here. I want this place to feel like mine. But right now, it just doesn’t. And I’m trying to figure out how to make peace with that.