2025/Penelope-34431

My father joined the Air Force when I was two years old. I learned quickly just what it meant to be a military child. I found myself living in military bases, and moving to live in a new place every couple of years. For a while, I thought this was normal for everyone, having grown up in this setting with other children in the same boat. I grew older, and through things like books and movies, I realized most people stay in one town their whole lives. Their definition of ‘home’ was starkly different from mine. I found it to be common that other families live near their grandparents, and grow up with the same friends their whole lives. Rather, I have little puzzle piece-memories that make up the picture of what I call home. My home extends past the foundations of any building, and exceeds any physical dimension. My home lives within my mind, in the smells and sounds and people of the past.

In the first few years my Dad was a part of the military, I lived in Virginia. This is where I was born, and where the rest of my extended family lives. I was just a baby when my family lived there. I don’t remember our house, but I frequently visit for the holidays to see my grandparents and cousins. Every time December rolls around, I think of warm Christmas nights full of family.

Some of my earliest memories are when I lived in Mississippi as a kid. Around this time, my siblings and I were very close. I remember playing tag and running around in the long hallway that linked the kitchen and living room with my younger sister. I also remember my first day of school, the day we got my two dogs, and the day we brought my brother home from the hospital when he was born.

I was about 5 years old when I moved from Mississippi to Alaska. By this time, I was old enough to make friends at school and in my neighborhood. We were all children, and we saw each other as playmates in the light of our innocence. Oddly enough, the snow is not what I think of first when I recall the 4 years I spent in Anchorage. More accurately, I think of the feeling of excitement associated with the smell of melting snow and crisp spring air, or the feeling of gravel beneath my feet, and the odd plastic smell of a trampoline in the hot sun.

I moved to the humble city Mons, in Belgium, in the year 2019. It was certainly different from Alaska in a lot of ways, especially in the difference in climate, humidity, and culture. By this time, I was used to acclimating to a new place. In the first year I lived there, I was terribly sad to leave my old friends. For me, this is one of the biggest downsides to moving so constantly, even now. Eventually, I did move on from my sadness, but I still think fondly of my childhood companions and the chapter of my life they come from.

In Mons, I met some of my best friends. I knew them through the end of elementary school and most of middle school. Because we were so close during very developmental (and frankly, difficult) times, the bond between us was stronger than most. I was a bit too old to enjoy playing outdoors, so evocations of my time spent in Belgium focus more on the feeling of comfort around the people I love and navigating the world with a more mature mindset as I entered my teenage years.

When I think of what home means to me, I immediately reflect back on all the people who were a part of my life. Whether it’s my family, my childhood friends, or the people surrounding me in my everyday life. I think of a collection of various memories in different points in time, in the forms of smells or faces. When I’m in a place where I’m loved and sharing experiences with my peers, I feel at home.