Almost two years ago, my family was forced to leave my childhood home and move a town away. We were essentially evicted. It’s a lot to explain because it ties into our state’s Homestead laws. Basically, the house was under my aunt’s name and she had used the property as collateral for a loan (which was vital in her successful attempt to graduate from university). She had neglected to pay off the loan and, although my father was willing to pay the remaining balance, the Homestead Association wouldn’t allow it. It was too late. It didn’t help our case that, because the house was in her name, she didn’t live with us on the property. So we had to give it up to make way for another family to lay claim.

In the weeks preceding our last day in my most beloved home, I experienced a roller coaster of emotions: Doubt, Denial, Reluctance, and finally, Heart-Breaking Acceptance. Doubt because I didn’t really believe that we would have to leave. Denial because, although we were given an evacuation date, I refused to believe that we were actually leaving. Reluctance because, even though our belongings were slowly being packed away into storage, I didn’t want to think that I’d never be in that house again. And Heart-Breaking Acceptance. When it finally dawned on me that this house would never be mine again, even though I’d always consider it my home.

I cried alone in my room the night of the realization, sobbing so hard that my throat constricted and I started to choke. I dried my tears as best I could, reduced my sobs to sniffles, and patted my hot face until I felt the redness go away. I walked from my room to the kitchen, absorbing as many details as I could: the splotch of red nail polish I had spilled on my bedroom floor, the cuckoo clock above my parents’ door frame that had been broken for as long as I could remember, the wood paneled hallway that my brothers and I had climbed as children.

The kitchen was next to the parlor, where my mother still sat upon the couch. I took in a deep breath and scurried across the short space I would be visible to her, hurrying for a glass of water to clear my throat. I filled the glass halfway with the tap and gulped it down as fast as I could. When I finally felt the pressure in my chest subside and my shoulders relax, I thought I was ready to gain control of my emotions. I intended to walk purposefully to my room. But, as I was crossing from the kitchen to the hallway, my mother caught sight of my face. And she called out to me, asking what was wrong. And I broke down in sobs again, overwhelmed with pent-up hopelessness and sorrow.

I climbed onto the couch and into her arms, tucking my feet under my body and weeping into her chest. She held me until I had cried myself dry of tears. As she grasped my shoulders, she told me that I had scared her; I hadn’t cried like that since I was a very young child. And I realized how much power I had as a daughter, as a child. My mother had been bearing the brunt of our trouble and had been strong throughout the entire ordeal; it wasn’t until I had broken down that she began to tear. She felt hopeless, just as I had, and she didn’t know how to make me feel better; she felt that there was nothing she could do and, as a parent, she felt like a failure.

That was the moment I promised myself I’d never break down in front of her again. She had been strong for us and it was my turn to be strong for her.

In the remaining days it took for us to pack up and find a new residence, I stowed away our worldly belongings with a newfound determination. And, while I was confronted with the reality that everything was going to change, I asked myself what a “home” really was. It wasn’t the house itself, no. It wasn’t the walls and the boards and the closets and the space. It was the Bird of Paradise my grandfather had planted in the backyard before dying of cancer in the living room (ironic, I know). It was the picnic table we blanketed with sheets until it became a fort. It was the hardened concrete in the front yard, with our hand prints and names cemented into the ground. It was the heart and soul we poured into the house that made it into a home. And just because we were leaving it, didn’t mean we were leaving our home behind.

We took our home with us. We took our spirit and, together, as a family, we built another home in our hearts. That entire experience taught me to take nothing for granted. Nothing is permanent and everything will change. I had to learn to adapt to the changes and revel in the joy that can be found in new experiences. It just takes a change of perspective.

Below are a few songs/music videos about what different people define as “home.” Some are simple and some are a bit more complex. It’s all open to your own interpretation and there are various song styles/genres. (My personal favorites are the House that Built Me by Miranda Lambert and Home by Gabrielle Aplin.)

House that Built Me by Miranda Lambert
Home by Phillip Phillips
Like Home by Nicky Romero & NERVO
Home by Dierks Bentley
Home by Michael Buble
Home by Daughtry
Home by Gabrielle Aplin