Skip to main content

The Unhoming

Home. It’s supposed to be a constant, a place that anchors us while we navigate the ever-shifting tides of life. But what happens when we return and find the anchor has slipped, the familiar landscape transformed into something foreign?

The walls stand sentinel, unchanged. Familiar faces move through the rooms. Yet, a subtle shift has occurred, a dissonance that vibrates in the air. The space that once cradled me now feels distant, as though I’ve become a visitor in a realm I once commanded. My childhood bedroom, once a sanctuary, now belongs to someone else. The responsibilities I used to shoulder have been redistributed, leaving me adrift. Though I’ve visited countless times before, this return feels different, the disconnect deeper, more unsettling.

Perhaps it’s the loss of control, the inability to shape the space as I once did. The familiar clutter, once my domain, now feels intrusive. A primal urge to organize, to reclaim some semblance of ownership, clashes with the stark realization: it’s not mine anymore. Perhaps it never truly was.

Or is it that I’ve found solace, a sense of belonging, elsewhere? Have I simply outgrown the confines of this space, finally understanding the unspoken conflicts that haunted my younger self? Perhaps the need has shifted. It’s no longer just physical safety I crave, but the deeper, more profound comfort of emotional security. Love, I’ve come to understand, is not just obligation; it’s the quiet hum of connection, the unwavering acceptance of who I am.

The Voice of My Inner Child

Within these walls, the echo of my inner child lingers. I see small hands frantically tidying, seeking validation, yearning to be seen not for her imperfections, but for the essence of who she is. She remembers the ever-present anxiety, the need to preemptively fix, to erase any perceived flaw before it could be pointed out. She still flinches at the memory of a sharp voice, the sting of being labeled careless, dramatic, lazy. She learned early that love often came wrapped in the barbed wire of correction, that warmth and judgment could coexist in the same breath.

She wonders, even now, if it was always like this. Why did home never feel as safe as it should? She longs for the simple comfort of being held, reassured that she is enough, that her worth is not contingent on her performance. She wishes she could simply exist, without the constant need to adjust, to tiptoe around expectations she never consciously set.

Even now, as an adult, I yearn for her to feel safe here. To move through this space without the fear of scrutiny, without every misstep being amplified. I wish my mother had possessed other tools for connection, beyond the relentless focus on flaws. Even the rare moments of tenderness are tinged with guilt – guilt for the fleeting warmth, for the inevitable return to criticism, for my own desperate attempts to prove I’m better than those she criticizes.

And yet, I know I am privileged. I have a place to return to, a roof overhead, a refuge that will always welcome me. This paradox – gratitude intertwined with a deep, persistent ache – leaves me suspended between longing for something more and the guilt of wanting it.

Perhaps home isn’t just the house we grew up in. Perhaps it’s the space, physical or otherwise, where we feel truly seen, understood, safe to be our authentic selves. As we evolve, does home evolve with us? Or do we simply outgrow the very concept of home as we once knew it, embarking on a lifelong quest to define it anew?

profile picture


Gemini can make mistakes, so double-check it

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Invisible Cradle

The Invisible Cradle Here, in my part of the world, a child’s arrival doesn’t begin with a nursery or a registry. It begins when the baby is in our arms. We buy a few clothes, a mat, some diapers. We don’t overprepare — not because we’re careless, but because we’ve been taught it’s unwise to get too ready for something before it happens. Anything can go wrong. And maybe that’s true. But lately, I’ve been realising there’s another kind of readiness we never talk about. The invisible cradle. At 35, when people ask me, “Do you have kids?” and I say no, they follow it with, “How long have you been married?” They assume my answer is temporary, not a choice. They assume I’m ready.  But I’m not. Not in the way I wish to be. What they don’t see are the years of therapy, the slow, messy work of healing the parts of me I didn’t even know were broken. They don’t see the grief I carry — for my parents, for myself, for every child born to parents who don’t know how to love themselves. My parent...
Read more

The Quiet Architects of Home

There are people you don’t even have a photo with. You didn’t visit their house every day or sit down for long conversations. You didn’t share milestones. But when you think of home, they’re there. In the background. In the air. My neighbors were like that. We lived in a close-knit community. I met them only occasionally, but whenever we did, they made their presence felt. Not loudly, just through small, hearty gestures. Pampering. Advice given as if I were their own child. Calling me mole — a word in Malayalam for daughter, spoken with love. Some of it used to irritate me. I'd wonder, “Who are they to tell me this?” But now I see it was care, offered freely. When they passed away, I didn’t cry. There were no grand emotions. But something shifted quietly. Their house still stands. But it no longer feels like theirs. New people live there now. My nephews call it by a different name. But for me, it will always be their house. Because I still hear their laugh when I pass by. I remembe...
Read more