I’ve lived in the same house in a small suburban town in New Jersey, until radically changing dorms and apartments many times throughout college. From Lafarge to Lancaster Courts to Prague to Merion Gardens to Manayunk, and living in my shore house for one summer, it’s been a trip for both me and all my things from one semi-permanent place to another. But throughout all the moves, I’ve still always come to feel like each new place truly was home.

After living out of the house I grew up in for years now, and going back to visit for a weekend, it no longer feels like home. Yes, the house in which I created 18 years worth of memories feels more like a vacation than my original bedroom. That OG bedroom’s walls are painted pink, and pottery barn furniture fill most corners. Pink and green flowers scatter my quilt, and a Victorian style vanity perfectly displays my primping materials.  Besides the fact that excessively frilly room reflects no part of myself now, it’s still the place I spent most of my time growing up. Whenever I return, I spill my packed duffle all over the floor within the first hour in an attempt to make it feel like the artfully cluttered vibe my bedrooms at school embody.

Clearly, it’s not the same. Perhaps I’ve changed from pre-college to now, and that’s why I feel like that house isn’t my home. But the things I have with me is the determining factor of where I call home.

So really, what is all this ‘stuff’? Well, it’s my collection of thrift shop clothing and beat up Converse I definitely should not be wearing anymore. It’s that guitar pick I found on the ground of a music festival, and extra stickers I can’t fit anywhere on my laptop. It’s my collection of dirty paintbrushes and spray paint cans whose nozzles are a little broken. My makeup with eye shadow palettes I hardly use; my old plane tickets tacked up on a bulletin board; coupons I keep forgetting to use stuffed in a plastic drawer set in my closet. Maybe I’m a low-key hoarder, but it’s not a problem yet, so I’m letting it happen.

All these things aren’t just random things I’ve collected over the years. My stuff is my self expression, and when I’m unable to express myself, I’m uncomfortable wherever I am.

If you know me at all, you probably know that I’m an artist. When I’m feeling particularly creative, I’ll make something out of whatever’s physically around me. When I’m done with that crayon-on-napkin diner sketch though, I’ll find myself thinking, “I wish I had some paint and a canvas right now.” I guess I’m just that damn needy, but to reach my creative potential, I better be in my home with all my art supplies, ready to rock. Some of my art relies on stream of consciousness, and if I decide I need to glue bottle caps onto a drying canvas—and oh, I have no bottle caps in that moment—there are going be some issues. When I’m not at home, I don’t have all my stuff. When I don’t have all my stuff, my art can’t reach its potential. And when my art doesn’t become everything I’ve wanted it to be, I’m perpetually in a funk that makes me feel like I’m not at home.

Although I’m a senior with no idea where I’ll be living in half a year, coming to this realization is somewhat encouraging. I’m open to experiencing a new city, and I know I’ve easily jumped around many different apartments.

I’ve known this all along: As long as I have all my art supplies and junk, I’ll feel comfortable in the home I’ve created, no matter where that might be.