A few days after my grandpa passed, I walked through every room in my grandparents’ house and captured footage along the way. My camera glided across spaces and objects that have always occupied prominent positions in my collection of fond childhood memories – the painting of a beach fence adorning the wall near the front door, the dusty typewriter in the corner of the front hallway, the creaky wooden stairs that I recall standing on at three years old. As I drifted from room to room, my grandma was chatting with guests downstairs; she was being her usual self, a larger-than-life presence, in the house that would soon no longer belong to her. I concluded my video-seeking escapade and turned to head back to the family gathering, trying to imagine each of the rooms I had been in with piles of storage boxes in place of their familiar decor. It felt as though a critical piece of my childhood identity was being dismantled.
When I was back at school, the painful reality of my grandma’s move loomed over me despite my best efforts to occupy myself with academic deadlines and social plans. I had relied on recollections of my childhood visits to my grandparents’ house throughout my life to ease the discomfort that came with various transitions, including the adjustment to college. One of the reasons that it was so tough for me to process my grandma’s move was that I had no space at school that could help me compensate for my sense of loss. I’d always associated my dorm room with impermanence; I’d unpack at the start of each year, cover my desk with coursework, and repack after finals ended in preparation for my relocation. I convinced myself that I didn’t have enough time to get comfortable in my dorm rooms, and I stopped myself from forming any attachment to them. I suppose I always feared the concept of growing to love certain places just to be separated from them.
Two weeks after I had seen my grandparents’ house for the last time, my friend Olivia stopped by. “Your room is cute, but you need more stuff on the walls,” she exclaimed, gesturing toward the massive patch of blank space next to my bed. I took in the sloppily hung posters by my door, both of which I’d picked solely because they looked somewhat attractive on the display rack at Target, and something clicked. In all the time I’d spent wallowing in sadness over the loss of my grandparents’ house, I’d neglected to recognize the opportunity I had to transform my dorm room into a second home. This supposed space of transience actually had the potential to become a comforting environment for me.
It turns out that four walls and a desk provide ample space to display valuable experiences. I started by conjuring up a few memories that I would like to revisit over the course of the semester – my study abroad program, my summers as a camp counselor, and even my periodic morning runs could all help me cultivate positivity and stability. I printed photos I took while exploring England, jogging, and hiking with my co-counselors on time off from camp, then proceeded to create collages next to my bed that would become the first thing I saw each morning. Given my love of books, I decided to ship several of my favorites from home and stack them in the corner of my desk for a library-like effect. My room decoration project also made me realize that I wanted to have people over more often, so I hung a string of fairy lights on my wall and began inviting friends to watch movies and play board games. I was furnishing my room not only with objects, but also with blossoming friendships and adventures. As I poured my energy into transforming my living space, the shock of losing my grandparents’ house faded.
When you are a student, you inevitably experience change and loss both inside and outside of your college life. Finding a space to ground yourself and explore your individuality, whether it is your room or elsewhere, is an important way to combat stressful or unexpected circumstances. By turning my drab room into a happy place, I came to understand that I will always have my creativity and self-awareness to help me find a home anywhere, even if I can no longer access certain places that used to be special to me.
