Nail Our Bodies to the Walls: What Makes a Place a Home

Home is supposed to be a safe space. When I was a kid, home was a nightmare. So, when I moved to college, I made home my sanctuary. No matter what happens outside my door, inside I am safely myself.

When the COVID-19 pandemic worsened and stay-at-home orders confined me to the four walls of my bedroom, I was apprehensive but comfortable. And while my sanctuary sometimes felt like a cage, reflecting on what makes my room my home has helped me better understand what makes me myself. We can learn a lot about a person when we look at their home. So, I invite you into my home, hoping that you may learn something about yourselves along the way.

Over the past five years, I’ve lived in five different buildings in two different states. Yet parts of my room have never changed. Trinkets clutter the bookshelves, windowsills, and nightstand. Pictures of friends and post-it notes are tacked haphazardly above my desk. The sticky notes are scribbled with phrases like, “what are three good things that happened today?” and, “you are not alone; you are just momentarily by yourself.”

A collection of postcards and handwritten notes hang from my wall like forgotten memories. One, a card from my sister, says “You’re awesome,” and I remember looking at that every day last year for reassurance. Textbooks, notebooks, and a backpack litter the closet, which is organized by color and season. Jason Mraz plays from my laptop, making me nostalgic for road trips with my father. My hoodies are strewn across the bed, the chair, the floor. Fairy lights dangle from the ceiling, and a lit candle smells of cranberry and cinnamon.

One of the more modern features in my home is my laptop. It’s one of the few pieces of technology that I own, and its value has increased as it gathers memories in the form of pictures, essays, and poems. Most importantly, my laptop connects me to the outside world. During the pandemic, my laptop allowed me to explore far corners of the globe within the four corners of my room.

My laptop sits on my desk, facing one of my double-paned windows. On the windowsill, four half-alive succulents prove that gardening is not a genetic trait. My mother would be disappointed in the state of my plants, but I blame the four-story brick building next door for blocking any chance of direct sunlight. I grew up in Minnesota, where sunlight, along with recreational lakes, are in surplus. Remnants of my Minnesotan home are present in my room: the pine-scented candles, the array of flannels in my closet, the photos of cabin life and fishing boats.

Careful not to draw attention to these intimate details, I keep the lighting low. The overhead lights are rarely on; rather, I rely on string lights, a small table lamp, and indirect sunlight to bask my room in a soft glow. I am not ashamed of my past, but I am determined to focus on my future.

My home acts like a bridge between my past and future self, reminding me of where I came from while showing me where I intend to go. NASA logos hang strategically around my room – on the wall, my pencil holder, my laptop – representing my goals as a journalist. Polaroids of my boyfriend sit atop my desk and my nightstand, indicating an optimistic future with my best friend. Perhaps a future where we create a sanctuary together. And I keep my father’s dog tags in my nightstand, tucked in the back next to my nail files and sewing kit. Sometimes I pull them out and fiddle with the chain while I watch TV, pondering how I may live up to his high expectations of success and independence.

My room is a collection of memories; trinkets, notes, and pictures that I amass over the years. Bits and pieces of me are hung on the walls, tucked away on shelves, and hidden in my closet. Thank you for observing these pieces as I bare them in all vulnerability. As winter approaches, we will soon be confined to our homes where reflection awaits. I invite you to reminisce on the bits and pieces of you that make up your home, to use winter as a time of reflection rather than loneliness.