I came home to an empty house. It was funny, standing there in the doorway, everything around me quiet and clean, everything in its place, everything exactly as it had been when I left. My dog came running over, and he greeted me like I never left. He jumped around my heels and ran to his toy and wagged his tail like he was the happiest dog in the world. He ran at my heels as I set my bags down in my old room and sat down on the edge of my bed. It was just like I had left it, but when I looked around, I almost didn’t recognize it. It was like I was looking into a catalog, where everything looked nice, but you could tell it was just a shell. I couldn’t picture myself as the girl who really lived there.

It was hard to come home. It was hard because I knew that as soon as I crossed the threshold I was no longer myself, but a shadow of who I used to be. I was forced to become the girl I was when I left; forced to inherit something altogether both foreign and familiar. I knew that I had changed, but when I returned home, I was expected to stay the same. To laugh at the same lines, enjoy the same music, to do the same things. The stories I would share without hesitation at school, I found myself holding back at home. Because those weren’t things that the old me would like, and those weren’t things that the old me would do.

The funny thing about changing is that it isn’t apparent as it’s happening. You don’t one day wake up and think to yourself, “Wow. I never thought I would be like this.” It’s a gradual process, formed by the people you met, the experiences you have, and the things that you do. That’s why it’s hard for me to go home- because the familiarity puts into perspective the changes I’ve made to myself. My family points out that I’m wearing more makeup, dressing differently, and talking with a new cadence. They point out that I seem to becoming someone else. Is this really such a bad thing? It’s natural to evolve, and change, and come into your own. It took me going away for a while to realize that it’s okay to be yourself and that it’s okay if that person isn’t who you’ve always been.

I’ve been told that I compartmentalize my life, and that this isn’t normal. I have my life in Gainesville, and I have my life at home. I act a certain way in Gainesville, and I act a certain way at home. I have separate friends in Gainesville, and I have my friends at home. The reason that these two don’t mix is because I’m expected to act differently in both places. I know that whatever I share about my life away will sound foreign to those at home, and vice versa. And its tiring- I don’t want it to be this way. But it seems like it has to, because if I didn’t then those around would be forced to come to terms with the fact that I’m not who I used to be.