This goes out to every kid who used to play Animal Crossing, also known as our first exposure to capitalism, debt, and the deeply unrealistic idea that you could own a house if you just worked hard enough and picked enough fruit.
And to the anyone who now want a room of their own, but aren’t entirely convinced they’ll ever get one. Not because they’re lazy or confused, but because it turns out the housing market is slightly more complicated than shaking a tree and picking up apples.
You grow up thinking life works like that game. You do your little tasks, you pay off your little debts, and eventually someone hands you a house.
It doesn’t.
Not now. Not for us. We were told it would be simple. Maybe not easy, but simple. It was simple for our parents; they had it better than we do. And simpler for our grandparents. I’m fairly certain they bought their houses for the equivalent of three watermelons and two cows.
I grew up in a house that wasn’t a home, which is probably why I became slightly obsessed with the idea of one. At night, I used to hide under the sheets and pretend it was my cave. No one could come in. I was safe there (and a bit asphyxiated).
When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I answered that I just wanted to be myself, but a version of myself who had a house.
To my seven-year-old self, being an adult meant having a handbag with keys and a wallet full of cards. But when I was eight, something shifted. The world changed. I noticed people walking faster down the street. They told me we were in “crisis.” I remember being confused because I was fairly certain it was summer. But I didn’t question it. Adults don’t like being corrected, especially not by children.
What they made very clear, though, were the consequences: I would probably have to leave Spain. Owning a house was, at best, optimistic and at worst, delusional.
I wasn’t particularly worried. Leaving sounded like an adventure, and the house problem didn’t concern me, since I had already decided I was going to be a millionaire.
Everything shifted the summer I spent in England.
On paper, it should have been perfect. I had friends. I had a mild romantic situation. I had all the elements required for my 19-year-old self’s happiness.
And yet, I was sad. Constantly.
Then one day, it stopped raining. The sun came out. And I noticed, very suddenly, that I could breathe again. That I felt lighter. That I was, for the first time in weeks, not actively miserable.
That’s when I understood: part of my happiness is tied to Spain. To things as simple as eating a tortilla de patata and seeing the sun every day. Or speaking my mother tongue every day, because I am funnier. So I made a decision. I would be part of the resistance. I would stay in Spain, no matter what.
Last year, I moved five times. At this point, I’m not entirely sure where all my things are. Or if I need them. Or if they’re still mine in any meaningful sense. After three unstable jobs, five apartments, and countless boxes, I am still that little girl who goes to bed, pulls the sheets over her head and prays for a home.
I know what a house is, I’ve lived in seven of them. And I know what a home feels like, I’ve felt it in my sister’s arms. But I’ve never experienced those two words together. And all I want in life is to be able to use them in the same sentence.
All I want is a house that feels like home.
A house where I only walk on tiptoe because I broke a glass the day before, not because I’m trying to anticipate my father’s anger.
A house where I make coffee in the morning and actually have time to drink it. Where the smell stays in the air long enough to notice. Where nothing bad is about to happen.
A house where I can sing “My Shot” from Hamilton with my sister every night, without feeling like I’m taking up too much space.
I love my sister’s arms. I could live there forever.
But it would also be nice to live somewhere with four walls, a big TV, a chaise longue, and an excessive number of overpriced scented candles.
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I’d love to hear from you (if you relate to this, I’d feel less alone and if you don’t, you’d inspire me, so all answer are correct here). Is home a place for you, or a feeling you’re still chasing?
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