On Coming Home Again

Home sweet home. Only not.

I didn’t move much growing up…ok, we never moved. The house that my parents and I drove away from when I headed to college was the same house that I was (accidentally) born in. It was the same house I’d cried in as an angsty teenager when I yelled that no one understood me. And the same backyard I used to play pirate ship in during those long summer afternoons when I was a child.

This house holds a lot of memories. So does this town. But not all of them are good. And most of them (almost all of them) aren’t who I am now.

One of the worst thing someone ever said to me was that to them, after 4 years, I hadn’t changed. The truth is I’ve been changing for years. Trying to change for the better. To become less shy. To conquer my faults. To become a better me. And I’ve done that. Not that I’m done. Or perfect. Or vain. But objectively, I know that I am better. I’m proud of that and how far I’ve come.

To be reminded of my mistakes and the person I used to be, especially after months away is hard. I start falling into old habits only to wonder why. But to not come back is impossible. This is my home. For better or for worse. With all its sorrow tastes and bittersweetness.

This is the house in which I first held my youngest sister the day she was born and stared into her dark eyes. This is the backyard where the lilacs bloom every year around my birthday. The same flowers whose scent is magic and difficult to replicate. This is the town in which I was formed. This is the house where I became the girl who left home with ambition in her heart. The house I return to a woman with confidence in my step ready to enjoy a visit, to share in the troubles and the love. Because here are the people I love with all their flaws and all their quirks.

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