While showing my high school best friend, Steve, around Finland…
Returning to my moms rendition of one of my childhood homes had me welling up in tears. The fear of going back to where I once lived is always met with bitter reality. It always feels the same as when a stranger wears the cologne of your lover. Slightly comforting but with an unbearable weight of confusion. I was overwhelmed by so many emotions, the most surprising of which was this particular house felt like a warm and much welcomed hug. It still felt like home. Weather that was due to our basement/storage unit flooding the month before and all of my childhood scrap books and stuffed animals were back upstairs in what used to be my bedroom, or that seeing my mom in this home is the happiest I have seen her in years, this home welcomed me back with open arms and it actually made me cry.
Wether or not the fact that coming back to this address interests you or not, I feel that it highlights the emotional struggle of growing up abroad that is often swept under the rug. The amount of times after explaining where exactly it was that I grew up it’s often met with the response ‘wow how cool’ or ‘I’m so jealous’. I’m not saying it wasn’t a privilege and I didn’t enjoy it, but growing up without a single place to call home has left me some what detached from everything, and unable to make permanent life choices and maintain relationships. Also making it hard to explain to my friend why finding solace in my mothers home, when my dad just moved out of family home in Germany and I just migrated to Copenhagen, has me balling on the floor from happiness. It’s silly, but I’m glad this house is back in my life.