AS I LOOK around, the scenery has changed, new structures have been placed, and a familiar scent lingering is in place. What was once my home, now greets me stone cold.
All this unfamiliarity worries me. The place that raised me has changed in ways that feel strange. I expected comfort after coming back from a gruesome semester, but what welcomed me was a reminder that time does not move at my pace. Time moves forward. Places change. People change. And inevitably, I also change. Looking back, the mall I frequented when I was young was still there, the park where I would play with my friends was still there, and the little shortcut I took to school with my loved one was still there. But what wasn’t there anymore was me.
Was it the distance, the time, or the physical change itself that reshaped familiarity with my home? The distance separated me physically from the routines and relationships that once defined who I was and what I did in my day-to-day life. Time, as it quietly crept onwards, allowed these routines to shift without my presence, reshaping habits and spaces in subtle but undeniable ways. And with time came physical change, new structures emerged, old spaces were repurposed, and new faces came out of nowhere.
Amidst these changes, I seek comfort from familiarity, only to find that the only familiar thing left is my bed. It’s funny how I used to call this my home. I would obnoxiously brag that these were my streets, that is my mall, that is my go-to hangout with my friends. But now I don’t even know the names of these places.
Admittedly, as a few days went by, I realized my home didn’t change as much as I thought it did; maybe I was just being a bit overdramatic. I started noticing the small details that remained, seeing familiar faces, and scenery that brings nostalgia. With these realizations came a state of serenity, a gentle reassurance that, despite the physical changes, home is still home.
The answer to the question earlier was me—not distance, not time, nor was it the physical change—it was simply me. My perspectives, personality, and visions all changed during the time I was away. Returning to this place with new eyes, I notice details I had overlooked before and feel emotions I had never associated with these spaces before. Alas, what truly changed wasn’t home; it was me.
At the end of the day, home will always be home. It will always welcome us with open arms even after years or even decades have passed. I realized that home is not merely a place, it’s a reflection of who we are at the time we return to it. While physical structures may remain, it is the lens of our experiences that shapes what we recognize as familiar. Perhaps, this is the beauty of coming home, even after such a long time. It reminds us not only of where we came from, but also who we have become.