Have you ever walked into a room, that you’re regularly in and something feels just a bit… off? Like everything in the room moved two inches to the left, it looks the same, yet you manage to bump into every piece of furniture. Going “home” to visit my family just recently felt like this. Perhaps, some of you who have moved out have also experienced this at some point. Maybe, at some point, it stops feeling weird. Yet, for the two weeks in which I visited the towns I grew up and graduated high school from I couldn’t shake this feeling. The first day in each respective house was the worst, then throughout the week, it gradually lessened as I learned to maneuver away from ‘shifted furniture’. However, at some point during the trip, I said, “It’ll be nice to go home”. Which kinda hit me in a bizarre, profound way, because I thought I WAS home. Then I realized, these places had been home. They still contained some of my things, and the people I loved. But, my home, with my life, was no longer there. I longed for my family-esque friends who help guide me through adulting, as well as my daily routine. These places that were my homes were now just houses. Though, I still enjoy returning to them and seeing old friends, and my family; my sense of purpose no longer lies there, and perhaps that’s why the odd feeling overtook me. It seems strange how quickly life can move on, and I regularly have to remind myself that things keep moving when I’m gone even if I’m no longer there to witness it.