Going To My Parents House, But Leaving My Home

Defining what and where home is began, for me, when I went to college. Like many people, this was the first time I had a space of MY OWN. One where my parents didn't have eminent domain.

However, they still owned my life since they were still paying for the essentials.

When I got married, I thought, "Okay, so my apartment with my husband will be my home."

But it didn't feel just like home. I loved having a nest (800 sq ft. 1 bedroom apt. can only be called a nest) with KW and since I was living off hand-me-down furniture from my mom, it looked like the home I was used to. But as soon as I got into my parents house, it was a different story...this smelt and felt like home. (even though, I only lived in that house for a total of a year-months of college summers plus time before married.) This is where "my people" lived...and that was home.

Over the years, I've noticed that changing. I still love coming to my parent's house. I love knowing where everything is, I love seeing what is different, I love going back into my mom's bathroom to do her hair in the morning (yeah, I wanted to go to beauty school so my mom let me work on my straightening and blow out skills on her), I love sitting in my dad's den and talking or not talking to him. I love playing with my brothers and seeing KW interact with my family, but my favorite part is at the end of the day...going up to the guest room (my room is used more frequently for my brother's fiancee)going up to bed and sleeping next to KW. He is my safebase. What makes me sane and what makes me feel whole and complete.

And as I am getting ready to go on my first leg of recruitment trips tonight (first stop, ATL!) I realise that while I am going to a house I love, full of people I love, my home is with him.