Home, such a simple word and yet, so many meanings. 

One of my earliest definition of a home was a house that makes a person feel belonged and happy.

I remember in my apartment days in California, oh, how I yearned to live in a proper house. Then during those first months after we moved to Texas, I got to temporarily live that life in my step-grandparents’ guest bedroom.

It was a luxurious life, better than living in a hotel. Every morning, I would wake up to the smell of eggs and sausage patties, gear me up for another day of learning. As the last period ended, I would board the large yellow school bus home, to my step-grandparents’ house.

Several months later, we were back living the apartment life in the apartment complex next to the school. I felt miserable in that apartment. I was frequently swarmed by flies and occasional rats in the kitchen. The worst was my parents’ constant arguing. It was as though arguing was their fuel.

The only things that kept me going were school and dreams, fantasies, and hope, hope that one day, I would get to live in a house of my own. I would have an office, a room for my puzzles, and plenty of rooms to house if my aunts and uncles decided to come visit.

A year and a half later, my mom and I moved to Utah, leaving my step-father in Texas. A week after we arrived, we moved into an one-bedroom apartment where each night, we would share a sofa bed.

Two years later, after my mom returned home from her training and temporary mission, she finally decided to buy a house. We searched up and down the valley for a suitable house but everything was either too big, too small, too broken, too expensive, or too old.

After months of searching, we finally decided on our current home. It was my mom’s decision anyway. I wanted a pretty one, one that looked like it’s in better condition.

After my mom signed the contracts and received the keys, we were ready to move in. I was completely excited. I got to live in a house, one which would be my home for an indefinite amount of time. My apartment days would finally be behind me.

Or so I thought.

After living in this house for more than six years, my definition of a home had slightly altered. My most recent definition of a home is a temporary shelter. A place where I can be at peace. A place where I can brainstorm and recharge. A place where I am free to let my mind go.

I no longer desire to live in a house. Having a house of my own feels like I am rooting myself in a place and I am not sure I want that, at least not right now.

Besides, after living in a house for six years, after going through all the frustrations of repairing and maintenance, after going without heat for at least a week every freezing winter, no way am I going to endure that myself.