On March 9, exactly seven months ago as I started writing this, I opened a Google Doc, titled it “post- lifestyle article (IK),” and began writing something which came to be called “Notes on the Possibility of Home.” The piece walked through ideas I’d collected on what it means to fit into a place: for my head to fit into my mom’s arms, or for me, a midyear transfer, to fit in at Brown. I was looking for a place to belong, not to belong to a place.
Over the course of the week, I wrote about the things I was trying to do to adjust. I wrote about missing my friends, about not having the energy to put posters up on my wall, and about immersing myself in the exploration of buildings to avoid thinking too much about the extremity of the change. I was overwhelmed and unsure.
I ended the article with the line, “Maybe home is an empty space that I’ll grow to occupy. Maybe this is right,” and the uncertainty that surrounds this statement captured my own uncertainty perfectly. Truthfully, it wasn’t something I believed at the time. It was something I was trying to convince myself of. So, I wrote towards it until I did. And until now, I had no idea just how right I was.
Today, I did pretty badly on a midterm. I walked out of Salomon, frustrated that despite feeling so prepared beforehand, I got flustered and panicked during the exam. I regretted not sleeping enough the night before, not starting to study for it earlier, losing my eraser yesterday, and many such things. Something I didn’t regret, though, is transferring. I didn’t fall into the same spiral I often found myself in last semester. Now, I’m sitting on a train, riding back from Boston towards College Hill. I just went to a concert and I sang along, loudly, without a second thought. I am realizing that, for the first time in maybe a year, I feel like I am a part of something. I feel like this place I am returning to is a new home.
Why do I feel this comfort now, when I didn’t before? Here’s what has helped as I’ve grown into this new space:
(1) Belonging somewhere is being familiar with the people and places that define it. This may seem obvious, but it took me a while—and adjusting to countless places—to realize, so I think it’s worth mentioning. This familiarity happens with time, sure, but also with regular exposure to as much of your new place as possible. So,
(2) Take walks. During the day, see as many faces as you can, as many times as you can, so they become familiar. If you’d like, say hi to people you don’t know until you do know them.
(3) Find and fall into patterns. Something as simple as regularly getting lunch at the Ratty provides its own comfort when there’s so much external uncertainty. The backbone of my day is still the routines I established throughout last semester, and it’s nice to know where to go and what to do next.
(4) Don’t hesitate to hope for more than what’s possible. In addition to routines, remember why you started something new. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t question your decisions—doubt can’t be avoided—but remember the very first things that you were excited about.
(5) Find beautiful moments and hold onto them. Sit outside late at night and listen to music, watch sunsets and sunrises with friends, go ice skating in downtown Providence, or whatever you think may end up changing the way you see the world. It’s impossible to know what will shape your lens—and in fact, everything does—so do what you think you will love.
(6) If anyone tells you that adjusting just takes time, do not believe them. Encourage yourself to actively engage with your new space as much as possible. Be out there. At the same time, somewhere deep down, hold onto the fact that they are right, because they are. It does just take time.
(7) Do not blame yourself. Know that things will work out, because they have before.
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about the first time I saw Brown. My friend showed me around the campus in the December dark, and more than anything, I remember the uncertain anxiousness hovering over everything I saw. Thinking back to each of those places brings back that uncertainty, but then a sort-of proud feeling surfaces.
I can’t believe how much I’ve grown in the ten months since I first saw this place, and in the seven months since writing the first article. I can’t believe that those same unfamiliar places now hold beautiful memories that define who I am.
When (not if) you are new to something—whether you’re a transfer, a freshman, starting a job, or anything else—remember the last time you felt this unfamiliarity. Trace back your thoughts to everything that seemed impossible to overcome, and remember yourself overcoming them, too. Remember yourself slowly growing into the space. Remember yourself belonging to it.
As this train approaches Providence, I can only think back to the first time I saw it. The street signs looked so pointed, and the road seemed so much narrower than those in Los Angeles and Minnesota. The city was preparing for winter, the small pieces of leaves on the sidewalks serving as a reminder that fall was ending, but wasn’t yet frozen. Somehow, it seems so different now. It’s remarkable how much I’ve changed and how much it hasn’t.
