A few weeks ago, I was lying in bed listening to the soft chirp of crickets outside and the noise softly transported me back to my childhood bedroom. I used to sleep with the windows open in the warmer months and I vividly remember falling asleep to the rhythmic summer symphony outside. I was suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia for a time when summer meant a break from responsibility, freedom to stay up late and spend the entire day outdoors with no grander plans than to catch fireflies after sunset.
But beyond longing for the age when life was a bit simpler, I also felt something else. Something odd. I felt gratitude. This was a strange emotion, I thought, as I had said a very painful goodbye to that very same room only a few years before.
Nonetheless, what I realized is that I am thankful for the memories I carry with me about that childhood bedroom—the first place I could call my own. It was there that I established my independence by painting over the pale pink walls, plastering ripped pages from teenie-bopper magazines to them instead. It was there that I learned what true friendship meant, sharing late-night secrets at giggle-filled sleepovers. It was there that I sought refuge after a fight with a high school boyfriend, or when I tested my parent’s appetite for disobedience.
My childhood bedroom was so much more than a place to rest my growing bones. It was the place that represents the person I’ve grown to be. And I am thankful for all of the moments those four walls witnessed along the way.
Never underestimate the power a place can hold; particularly when that place is called home.
