What is home? Is it a place or a feeling? Is it someone special? I am still rediscovering what it means to me. Home used to mean the place where I grew up in the rural Midwest. It wasn’t a fancy house, but I can still remember how the warm afternoon light would shine through the living room windows. I can still smell the kitchen when my mom would make supper in the summer.

It’s been 7 years now since the fire that destroyed my home. I was there when it started that day, and every moment is forever engrained into my memory. I am still constantly filled with the what ifs—what if I had been able to put it out; what if I had not heard my grandma yelling my name from her part of the house; what if she had not done laundry that day in the drier that caught fire? After the fire all that was left was a big hole in the ground. I went into my senior year of high school without even being able to sleep on my own pillow at night. People didn’t understand, and I was pushed to finish while my mind was still in shock. I went to counseling but the process of grief seemed impossibly long.

I had to get away. College was a good change but it was difficult balancing classes and a social life with trying to grieve in a healthy way. I ended up dropping out 3 years in because I could not concentrate. I needed to heal, and I needed a real lasting change from what was left of my home. I decided to “run away” to the coast. The warmth and the salty air on the beach have been therapeutic. The pace of life here has been refreshing to my soul. Finally I have been able to grieve without being pushed to feel normal again. Instead I let the waves in the ocean sway me to and fro. I am not letting myself go; I am simply healing the way I need to.

The worst part is not having the same kind of home that I so long for. Right now I find that relationships with people are becoming more valuable than I used to treat them. If I can help anyone through the same kind of tragedy I think perhaps I will be closer to a new definition of home.