Growing up, I always had a skewed image of what the meaning of home was. I was born in Russia, in a small town outside of Moscow by the name of Tver. For the first six months of my life, my home was an orphanage. Now obviously I do not recall any of this time period, but I have learned from my parents that this orphanage was no home.

To summarize my knowledge, the rooms had no windows, only screens that were littered with holes, so much so that there was essentially no point in covering the windows. Every child was dressed in too many layers of clothing for the month of July, but the nights were cold, and the "windows" did not prevent the elements of the weather. We were fed eggs and whole milk with no regard to age, because an orphanage that cannot afford screens by all means cannot afford formula. Having this in my past, as I grew up it became difficult to have sense of homeyness in my life. I always heard the phrase "born and raised," but I could never relate. I learned very quickly that to me, home was not a place. In my eyes, home was composed of the people around me. Whether it be my family, my friends, my teammates, my coaches, my teachers, whoever it was, home for me was where their hearts were, not where mine was.

In a much more literal sense, my "home," the place I grew up in, was a small, suburban house in South Lyon, Michigan. I am very proud of my humble upbringing and the literal and metaphorical home that was provided for me by my adoptive family, but while South Lyon is a suburb of both Detroit and Ann Arbor, two of the most happening and well-known towns in Michigan, there was very little to do, and even less to see.

For instance, the biggest headline the town has seen in ages was the building of a new water tower, which still commands the local newspaper to this day. While there were many days where I longed for more than my little farm-filled horse-town could provide, I would not change a single thing about where I was raised. South Lyon may appear to be desolate and uneventful, and my description does not prove otherwise, but I am nonetheless very proud to be a small-town girl who lived in a "lonely" world. From the eyes of a little girl growing up, there was nowhere better to live. Mickey's Dairy Twist had the best soft serve ice cream in the "Dirty SL" as we like to call it, and it was just half a mile away on my bike. Just down the street from there was McHattie Park, the home of the biggest and best sledding hill the Metro-Detroit area had to offer. Finally, my best friends lived in the six neighboring houses surrounding me. We shared clothes, played ghost in the graveyard every night of the summer, had barbecue dinners on the playground, and grew up side by side.

That was my first feeling of home. My neighbors. No matter how long I am gone or how far away I am from that home and those people, I always have mixing bowls of potato salad and Disney movie marathons to come back to.

Our first neighbor wedding. Five families full of love and the purest childhood memories.

As I continued to grow older, I thought I would grow out of my small-town mentality. However, when it came time to pick my high school, instead of attending the large public high school that all my friends and neighbors had chosen before me, I picked the small, all-girls Catholic school that was nearly an hour away from my house. Little did I know that Livonia Ladywood High School would become more than just a school to me.

There was something unique about this school. I say that in the past tense because this past year, my high school closed due to a steady decline of enrollment. While the Felician Sisters who sponsored Ladywood thought that a class of fifty-four girls was far too small, we saw it as a family of fifty-four sisters who knew and cared for each other.

I loved walking through the hallways and not just knowing the name of every girl, but also where they were from and two fun facts about their life, because each and every one of those girls became my home. I loved playing on an all-girls football team and wearing a kilt every day. I loved being able to paint my entire face for any given school event, and not be judged for it. I loved high school.

At the end of the day, Ladywood was more than a school to me, it was a home, my home. Ladywood taught me how to make a name for myself and how to properly wear a messy bun. It taught me how to lead a student section, how to do calculus, and how to solve a crime. It taught me that it's okay not to take a date to a dance, and while I never did quite learn how to dance, Ladywood taught me to never stop dancing. Ladywood was a place where teachers could be more than just teachers; they were my mentors, leaders, coaches, senior picture photographers, and most importantly, my friends. Ladywood was a place where a blanket was acceptable attire and a place where crocs were in high fashion.

I am forever grateful for the sacrifices my family made to send me to that school, and I am even more grateful for the fifty-four forever friends I graduated with in May. I know that my high school experience is one that I will remember forever, and while the building may not be there to return to in the future, I will always have those memories of the past.

Unfortunately, everything good must come to an end. I searched far and wide for a university that felt like home. I landed at Saint Mary's University of Minnesota, a small, private, Catholic school (big surprise there).

It is needless to say that I am very out of my element in a school larger than 150 students, not to mention the adjustment to co-ed learning has been an interesting one so far, but I look forward to making Saint Mary's my new home.

Being away from my literal home is something I am not quite used to yet. I miss the way my house smells and people who say "bag" correctly. Despite this, I would not say I am homesick, rather just looking for a new group of people to call my home.