Can You Ever Really Go Home Again?

They say you can never go home again.

Lately, though, I catch myself daydreaming about the place where I spent my preteen to young adult years.

A few weeks ago, on our way to one of my doctor's appointments, I asked my husband if he wouldn't mind taking a slight detour to drive by the building where I grew up. He looked at me quizzically, understandably curious. His solitary plea was simple: 'Why?

This question was valid, yet a simple answer eluded me. Memories kept flooding in of my parents in their prime and the love, hope, and friendships that were so abundant, not to mention hormones and youth. All of this stirred a profound longing within me. It was as if an inexplicable gravitational pull was drawing me back home.

In a 2024 Washington Post article titled "The House That Haunts Me," author Melanie McCabe explores whether she misses the house or the people who once lived there. She writes,

"I imagine what it would be like to move back into the house on Vernon Street. To pull the covers up to my chin as I lie in my old bedroom, to wake to the remembered spill of sunlight through the windows. Perhaps the experience would draw me closer to those I have lost. And yet their absence might feel even more profound to me within those walls that had once held us all. That what I might be buying was actually a life of regret." 

My recent yearning to revisit home is not unique, according to a Psychology Today article by Jerry M. Burger, Ph.D., titled "You Can Go Home Again, and Maybe You Should."

According to Burger, many people return to their childhood homes to reconnect with their past selves captured in old photographs. He notes,

"The vast majority of people interviewed were glad they had made the trip, and many planned to visit or had already revisited. They talked about getting back in touch with important parts of their pasts, obtaining insights about how and why their lives unfolded the way they did and gaining a valuable perspective with which to make important life decisions. Many participants used the trip as a form of self-disclosure. About half the people interviewed brought someone with them, usually a spouse or children, as a way to share something important about themselves." 

My husband suddenly nodded and understood my nostalgia, having felt the same way about his childhood home only a few blocks away from ours now.

During our daily walks, we purposely stroll past his old house. He sometimes pauses, pointing to the bedroom window where he once eagerly awaited friends to join him on the walk to school. Each time he reminisces, my heart aches, picturing him as a scrappy 10-year-old, hoping not to walk alone and sometimes waiting in vain.

Walking by his childhood home triggers vivid memories of family and togetherness. His parents' eventual divorce, after they moved from that house, casts to this day a shadow of sadness I can see reflected on his face.

A parking spot miraculously opened up right outside my apartment building - a third-floor walk-up. Sitting in the car, I gestured towards the balcony, gazing at the familiar facade that cradled all my dreams and fears, how I longed to ascend and float through each room again. 

It wasn't about the physical structure but the warmth it held. I miss the echoes of giggles, my parents' spirited debates, sisterly skirmishes, and the intoxicating smells of my mom's cooking, which filled every room.

In what used to be my small bedroom, I wondered if my initials and my lame message of 'peace and love' were still carved into the closet wall. Now upgraded to a sleek sliding pane, the front window bathed our cerulean blue living room. It was a space where I often nestled beside my dad's cherished reclining chair on the thickly carpeted floor. There, he patiently attempted to explain the compulsory school read '1984' and demystify algebra for me, though often it was futile, my eyes frequently glazed over. Memories cascaded back as I stared up at that window — once a vantage to the bustling street below, now an irresistible portal into the past.

During our years there, we were all at pivotal points, facing transitions filled with excitement and uncertainty. The final year we were there, in 1981, my parents, after a lifetime of hard work, had finally saved enough for a down payment on a condo, my sister was engaged and preparing to move out, and I was navigating the challenges of pursuing my undergraduate degree.

As we prepared to leave our familiar apartment, our sanctuary for so many years, we knew nothing would remain the same. It marked the end of an era, the last time we would all sleep under the same roof.

I quickly snapped a photo with my cell phone and took one last glance. My husband asked if seeing my family home brought closure, solace, or any benefit.

At that moment, I couldn't fully grasp it.

Only days later, as I revisited that photo, I began to understand how far that shy, quiet girl had come — and perhaps how far she still had to go in overcoming her worries and anxieties, especially those associated with aging and navigating this new phase in life.

The Washington Post article "The House That Haunts Me" completely resonated with me, particularly the reference to country singer Miranda Lambert's song "The House That Built Me."

A friend recently sent me a link to a music video for Miranda Lambert's "The House That Built Me." I began crying in the opening seconds and continued through the entire song.

A young woman revisits her childhood home, wandering from room to room and has visions of herself as a young girl, and images of her brother and parents. Two lines stick with me: "If I could just come in, I swear I'll leave/Won't take nothing but a memory." 

They say you can't go home again, which may be true. But we can cherish our past and recognize how it shaped us into who we are today. Embracing our journey from youth to now helps us appreciate our progress. It motivates us to grow unabashedly wiser, not just older.

Here is Miranda Lambert's music video, "The House That Built Me".

About the Author;

Wendy Reichental enjoys writing about life's quirks and foibles in short essays and opinion pieces. Her work has appeared in publications like The Montreal Gazette and Ottawa's Globe and Mail, as well as digital platforms such as Booming Encore, Refresh Reflexology Magazine and numerous online forums. Wendy's unique observation on the initial days of the pandemic lockdown is captured in the anthology Chronicling the Days: Dispatches from the Pandemic, published by Guernica Editions in the spring of 2021. Wendy holds a B.A. and a Diploma in Human Relations and Family Life Education from McGill University.