What is home? For a long time, it was one specific place to me. Then, for a while, home was a person; however, I am someone who needs structure and I realized having a certain place to call home feels better.

My home was everything to me. Suddenly, I was whisked away to the world of college, but I wasn't coming back to my home. I didn't get the chance to come back to a familiar place that contrasted the foreign feeling of college. For breaks, I'd be spending it somewhere new. Somewhere that was not home.

I know it's not good to live in the past but I can't help this. My old address is still in my phone as "home." I'm not sure when I'll have the strength to change it. It's something so small, but I feel like if I switch the address, things will be so concrete. That isn't really something I'm ready to accept.

I've tried to make this new place feel like a home would; I've had friends over, brought a new pet there, hung up pictures from my old room. But that doesn't make it my home. My mom's place where I live is not home. My dad's where I visit isn't it either. My home is still on Waterford Drive and it will always be there. These new places did not form me into who I am. These walls did not shape me. My home did that. It helped sculpt me into the person I am today. My old bedroom walls know more about me than anyone. There is not another place nor a person who can do for me what that house did.

It's almost been a year since I last was in my home. So much has happened. Part of me believes I'd be different if I had been able to be in my room and let the walls fix me like they used to. Another part tells me that being without my home has only made me stronger. I like to try to believe the second part just to help me adapt a little better. I like to try to force myself to move on, considering everyone eventually moves out of their childhood home.

I can't help but miss the four feather blue walls of my old bedroom, though.