Seeking Home

Part 1 of 2

I recently borrowed Jeremiah Brent’s book from the library. The Space That Keeps You: When Home Becomes A Love Story is a collection of stories and photos on what makes a home and what that means to people. Brent is a designer I have long admired – for his work (sometimes along with his husband, Nate Berkus), but also for how he expresses his ideas and connects with people. In any show I have watched him in, he seems genuinely moved by people, their stories, and the meaning their spaces have. The love and care he holds for the concept of home resonates deeply with me, and my story mirrors some of his own. The beauty Brent creates for others connects to his own experiences of family, being raised by a single mom, breaking cycles with his marriage and kids, and moving many many times in his life. From these experiences a yearning to find the grounding and belonging of Home was borne. Me, too, Jeremiah Brent. Me, too.

Having cPTSD is like being homesick with no idea of what home was supposed to be. – Nate Postlethwait

By the age of 8, I had moved six times to a variety of houses in multiple towns and cities. I can still catch glimpses of many of them in my memories. Most of my happy childhood moments were playing outside by myself (“it was the 90s”). Outside and/or alone was a safe space for me. My parents did not divorce until I was 17, but my entire childhood is shadowed by toxic conflict, neglect, abuse, and layered instability. The moving trucks were one outcome of such unrest and literal poverty. And then, just in time for me to start grade 2, we finally moved back to my hometown. I don’t why we moved, but it would not be a stretch to guess my parents were out of options – out of money, out of housing, and in need of support from their parents, too. Returning to the place of my birth meant returning to my maternal grandparents. My relationship with them was my one, secure constant. Their house was the closest thing to home I knew throughout my childhood and my 20s. They are also the reason moving back meant housing security and staying in one place for awhile.

My grandparents owned a small rental property akin to a tiny home. It was located in a village not far from the waterfront and a gorgeous beach, that remains quiet and generally accessible to this day. The elementary school for K-8 was one block from the tiny house. The village library slash firehall was a block in the opposite direction. A corner variety store and attached ice cream shop were around the corner. The house with it’s off-white siding and beige brick sat on a lot with a long narrow backyard – perfect for a makeshift soccer field with a goal between two posts of the chain-linked fence. Eventually that backyard would also hold a massive vegetable garden my mom and grandfather poured sweat into to subsidize my parents’ food budget. I have clear memories of helping with potatoes, zucchini, carrots, and tomatoes. My mom could not have done it without my grandpa, his rototiller, and the farming knowledge in his blood.

My grandparents gave us housing security not simply because they owned a rental property and allowed us to live there, but because they gave my parents affordable rent, too. They also showed up with groceries every so often, including sugary cereal and the coveted Snack Packs. They had us over and ordered pizza for delivery. They took us out for brunch at the diner on the golden mile. My Grandpa picked us up from school. They showed up to our soccer games. They lived a 7-minute drive from us and we visited regularly. There are countless ways my grandparents (“Grammie and Papa”) gave us kids a safe landing that I know of, and I imagine many more behind the scenes that I will never know. I have no doubt the grandchild-grandparent relationship they cultivated with us saved my life in a few ways. We lived in that tiny little rental house for 8 years, and then we moved one last time as a family under the same roof. For two years after that last move into a new-to-us 2-storey home, my parents’ marriage unraveled the rest of the way. My siblings and I endured this while living on the other side of the city from our schools, our friends, and our grandparents. The divorce came the summer I began my senior year of highschool. We moved a couple more times in my hometown before I finally left for university and the beginning of another era of transience.

In college and university in Canada, you do not typically live on campus the whole four years. For my first year, I lived in campus residence, but the next few years were lived off-campus in a house with roommates. My Masters in Science of Physical Therapy program was in another new city, which meant another move. When I finally graduated, having finished all 7 years of post-secondary education and with a provisional license as a Physiotherapist Intern, I moved back to my hometown and to Mom’s house for less than a year. I knew I would not be staying. I needed to make some money, pay off my most pressing student loan, and plan what was next. I nearly lost myself in the suffocation of being back in the town of my traumatic childhood memories. I was saved by the beautiful waterfront and beaches, playing sports with friends, and-as per usual-my grandparents. During this time, I seriously considered moving to New Zealand. My Physio education was recognized there, and there was a partnership between New Zealand and Australia: Kiwi Physios could get licensed in Australia with minimal administrative barriers. I started to dream about a 5 year plan of first New Zealand and then Australia. At the same time, I questioned where in Canada I would want to live if I decided against trekking to the other side of the world. Through the positive influence of two good friends – one in Prince Rupert, one in Calgary – I began to consider a western province. I like a plan. I am really good at making a plan. The plan that began formulating was to live in Calgary for a couple years and if it did not fit, I would move on my New Zealand idea. It did not take long for the pieces to fall in place and soon I had made what would be the most important decision of my life: I was going West. And I did not expect to look back.

I have a philosophy that you’ve always got to honor the past, acknowledge the present, and leave room in your space for the future. – Jeremiah Brent

In 2013, I drove myself to Calgary in my small 2-door car, with my Mom in the passenger seat and my youngest sibling in the back. Perhaps their decision to travel with me across 3000km in three days, during summer, and with no AC in the car… was an even more adventurous decision than mine! The only belongings I brought were clothes, guitar, soccer ball, and some books – all of which were very methodically and forcefully packed around my incredibly gracious and long-suffering sibling. I arrived in my new city both terrified and exhilarated. I already had a job lined up. One of my closest friends had offered to house me for the first few months. I reconnected with a couple past classmates who were in the city. I joined some recreational sports teams. And I slowly began to make a new life for myself.

Moving so far from my hometown and my family was difficult in some ways, but something within me knew it was exactly the space I needed. I needed room to breathe, to discover myself, and to heal. Before I left my job at the hospital in my hometown, I had a memorable conversation with my boss. With a “knowing” smile, she said, “Oh, you will be back someday. You’ll see.” That stuck with me; not because it was profound but because of how wrong she was and still is. She meant well, but simply had a vastly different life experience than mine. Not everyone’s hometown is full of precious memories. Yes, I have some happy memories. Yes, I miss the incredible, freshwater lake that looks like the ocean and the sandy beaches (if you know, you know!) Yes, it’s where my grandparents continued to reside, and other family members I care about. Those things have always been overshadowed, though. My hometown holds traumatic memories that turn the complex PTSD volume up to full blast. I have yet to visit without having my body feel unsafe for at least part of the time. Every visit back there is complicated for these reasons. My boss at that time assumed I was leaving because I didn’t appreciate what my hometown had to offer, but I was leaving so I could untangle myself from family trauma, abuse, and enmeshment. I was leaving so I could heal. It has been 11 years. I am still in Calgary. And I am more certain than ever before: I will never live in my hometown, again.

I landed in Calgary, but it would still be years before the sense of transience, the regular uprooting, and the lack of belonging would finally ease. From 2013-2020, I lived in four different places in the city – all of them knowingly short term and temporary. In that timeframe I met my now-spouse, and he turned my life upside down in all of the best ways. We are fortunate enough to own a home that is already full of shared memories from the nearly 9 years we have been together. It is the twentieth place I have lived in my under 40 life. (In 2028, when I hopefully surpass my record for time spent living in one house, I plan to celebrate intentionally.) I am building a life, here. With myself, with my spouse, with my community. And I am becoming the adult I needed as a child. Hell, I already am the adult I needed as a child! After a lifetime of upheaval and survival mode, I now have a place to root into. I have people I love and who love me, and with whom I grow and learn. I have a home in all of the tangible and intangible ways of my survivor dreams.

To be continued…