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I write because I want to pause. I want to remember this moment. To feel it, smell it, hear it, taste it, even. This moment of both my children asleep in the other room while my breast pump sounds rhythmically next to me, preparing my son’s next bottle. The warm breeze from this July day brushes across my face and lifts the curtains. The house is near empty because we’re in between a big move. Do you feel it yet?

Right now, we’re about to embark on a new journey as a family of four. Just three short month ago my son was born and completed our small family. During that time, we have been experiencing a worldwide pandemic, I graduated with an Associate of Science in Communication, I was accepted to a new school to continue my education, and my husband accepted a new job 17 hours away. It’s been a whirlwind.

This move brought about many emotions, since we are currently in my hometown and near family. It’s never an easy thing to walk away from what you know, but regret is something I could never forgive myself for. The “what if?” if you will. This new chapter will bring about so many wonderful opportunities for our family and I am proud that we decided to make such a big decision, though it may be extremely uncomfortable.

As I sit here right now, I am thinking of what makes a house a home. I realize it isn’t exactly a house, but a feeling–a sense of belonging.

I wanted to share a short essay I did for my admission into the University of Tampa. The question prompt was, “How did your neighborhood shape you?” I took it, not in its literal form of “neighborhood” but in the sense of my hometown since it was so small.

We lived in small, country town in Western New York State. Our town bordered Lake Erie. Each winter, we were pounded on by snow, but each summer the Earth was alive with massive maple and oak trees, which provided the perfect shade to cool off, and the grape vineyards stretched on for miles and miles.

On our side of town, it was more quiet. I spent so much of my time wandering the gorge, hiking up and down it, getting my feet hardened to the Earth beneath them. I’d let my feet hang in the water so still that fish would nibble at my toes. The best part was I was never alone. My friends and I were all athletes, we all excelled in school, and we all made it into our school’s select choir. We were all a part of the same things, living in the same area, experiencing it all together. There are memories of hot nights spent under the stars, riding bikes day and night down the country streets, sledding down the hill behind the school, and playing all sorts of games into the night.

My neighborhood provided me with the most sentimental of memories. It gave me lifelong friends, who I enjoy watching follow their dreams each day. It gave me the sense of belonging—a way in which I haven’t felt since we all packed our bags and went our separate ways nearly a decade ago. It made me one with nature and planted roots so deep inside of me that my house never mattered to me because it felt like a cage holding in a bird that was ready to take flight.

When I think of my childhood neighborhood, now that I have two children of my own, I have this feeling in which I need to share with my family. It’s a moment when time seems to stand still. I’ll recognize it, because in that moment all will seem right in the world. The air seems lighter, the breath filling your lungs feels cleaner. It’s a moment you can say, “this is it.” Coming home isn’t a phrase used for a house, but for the feeling of belonging and for the feeling of complete and utter peace.

As we near the end of our chapter back in New York, I find that with each passing day I feel more at peace with our decision to move. All I can hope to do as we move forward is provide this sense of belonging with my children. One day they will also choose to move on, and I want them to know that it’s okay, and though change can be uncomfortable, it can also be freeing. They will know because we will root within them a sense of home.