Home Grows with Us
Growing up, the concept of “home” had always been a simple one. Home, in its most fundamental form, was a place of residence. For me, this was an ivy-covered brick bungalow in a northwest suburb of Chicago. Built in 1924, this two-story home sat on a quiet street where no two houses looked the same; each house a different color, like crayons lined up in a box. Surrounded by blooming hydrangea and tall oak trees, my house was a wonderful place to grow up. Its long, narrow driveway was the first place I learned how to ride a bike. The crabapple tree on the side of the house- with its dense foliage and abundant branches- made for the perfect secret hideout. The wooden playset in the backyard allowed me and my siblings to exercise our imaginations, becoming pirates, wizards, acrobats and artists in the span of an afternoon. The fireplace in the family room kept us warm during Chicago’s harshest winters, the sturdy roof over our heads kept us dry on the rainiest of days. Stockings lined the mantle at Christmas, and plastic Easter eggs filled with chocolate were tucked into nooks and crannies every spring. In the summer, sunshine would pour in through the lofty windows; in the fall, the smell of cinnamon sugar would waft throughout the house. It was an ideal place for young minds to learn how to read and write. It’s where I started elementary school with excitement, and entered middle school with uncertainty. It’s where neighborhood children ran through the sprinkler on warm summer afternoons, and built snowmen on cold winter mornings before school. It was a place of movie nights and card games, baking competitions and art expositions. A symbol of safety, comfort and certainty, this house felt like what a home should feel like.
Despite the seemingly flawless physical characteristics of my home, the thing I seemed to love most about it was that everything always remained the same. I would come home from school and walk up the driveway where I once sold lemonade to the neighbors and scraped my knees while roller skating. I would look into the backyard and see the same crabapple tree I used to climb up as a kid and the playset where my imagination was once set free, despite the fact that it was now old and rotting. As a child filled with fear of change and anxiety about having to face inevitable uncertainty in life, I appreciated the fact that my home was forever, that it was a source of constant comfort and stability. I cherished the fact that if nothing else, I would at least have home to come back to- a place where I felt the most me. To put it simply, this place was where I felt planted. My seeds had been sowed in the soil many years ago, and now, with lots of sunshine, love and nourishment, I was finally ready to grow.
However, right as I was ready to bloom, I was uprooted and replanted in unfamiliar soil 4,130 miles away.
In 2018, on a sunny mid-August morning, my family drove away from our ivy-covered brick bungalow, away from the colorful houses and the quiet street they sat upon. We drove to O’Hare Airport, our suitcases filled with all of our belongings, and got on a plane to Paris. It was bizarre, leaving Chicago that way. It felt as though I was abandoning childhood, tradition and routine. Like I was trading the promise of certainty for the adventure of the unknown. I was wary of such sudden change. After all, I had never lived abroad before, let alone traveled to Europe prior to my move. Everything felt like it was changing with such extreme force that there was no point in even trying to slow down, to catch my breath. In that moment, I just had to jump, to let go of my fear of uncertainty, and be comfortable with being uncomfortable.
Of course, that is easier said than done. There were times when my heart ached for the comforts of home; the particularities of a practice endured over the course of many years. I craved tradition and normalcy, balance and familiarity. Home had always been so simple because its comforts and ease were always so accessible. But now I was in a foreign land, a place I wasn’t yet familiar with. Over time, as I grew more accustomed to my new surroundings, I would learn that the comfort and normalcy I enjoyed in the past were actually what held me back from the growth I longed for and the goals I planned to achieve. Ultimately, leaving the comforts of home and surrendering to uncertainty allowed me to attain a more developed sense of self and a renewed sense of home.
At the time, the thought of home being anywhere other than where I grew up was preposterous. And yet, if you asked me where I consider home today, I would tell you that my home is in Paris. Now, I find solace in the sounds of the city and the smell of fresh dough being baked into baguettes every morning. There is something so comforting in using the métro as my main method of transportation, something so exciting about walking along the river. I find a sense of stability standing in front of gargantuan paintings at Musée du Louvre and Musée D'Orsay, sitting in the green fermob chairs at Jardins de Luxembourg and Tuileries.
While the culture of the city captivates me and continues to draw me in with each passing day, the most important thing I have taken away from my experience as an expat is my enhanced awareness of the world around me. Not only have I been introduced to the world’s various cultures and customs, but I have been given the opportunity to engage with them and learn about them from people who experience traditions different from my own. Growing up in the United States, I only ever focused on the traditions that I experienced and the culture that I was a part of. Now, as an international student and global citizen, I am given the opportunity to understand and appreciate the values and cultural backgrounds of others, while continuing to honor those of my own. Evidently, my experience has given me the chance to improve and immerse myself. Through times of uncertainty, I have experienced an extension of self and a sense of belonging; two things that I don’t believe I would have found had I remained rooted in the soil I started out in.
This unique experience has also redefined what “home” means to me. Before, the word home had been the constant in and of itself; its dictionary definition declaring it the variable that never changed. However, after my experience in Paris, I now realize that home doesn’t always have to remain the same; its definition is malleable, its criteria non-existent. Of course, I still find a sense of home in that house I so lovingly described above. Yet, I now find a similar sense of home in Paris. Before, I thought that home could only be experienced in one place, at one time; that it was a sensation evoked by one’s physical surroundings. Now, I realize that home is a feeling evoked from within; a sensation that starts at our toes and rises to the tops of our heads, experienced by both the mind and the body. It is something that can be felt at any time, in any place. It’s internally stimulated and externally enhanced. In other words, we have the ability to feel at home anywhere. This sense of comfort does not depend on the environment, it is only intensified by it.
Today, five years after having moved to Paris, I can appreciate both my old home and my new one. I can respect their differences and understand the ways in which they benefit me. I can revel in how they make me feel; how each place provides a different sensation of home and a different level of comfort. While my home in Chicago prepared me to bloom, Paris is where I blossomed. And so, being replanted there, I could finally stretch my roots deep into the soil below me and reach my leaves towards the sky above.