For centuries people have taken pride in decorating their homes. It has been a way for people to express their style, showcase their proudest moments and make a place their own.

For me, growing up, that took the form of decorating my bedroom. I hung photos, displayed my awards and always loved repainting the walls. My bedspread would always need to match the new wall paint, along with every little accessory or decoration I would buy.

But at 18, it was time to move away from home. After a brief first attempt at college, I made the decision to leave and continue my figure skating career in Chicago.

The skating community here would become more than just my metaphorical home. They would also be the people to give me my physical home. They not only opened their doors for me, they shared a piece of their lives.

Ultimately, I would live in seven homes over seven years. Seven families who were all different — with different styles, values and families. This is a piece of that story.

The Papasan House

In the house of the first family who took me in, it all started with a plain white room — four empty walls surrounded me. Only a wooden bed frame and twin-sized mattress sat alone in the corner. The space wasn’t that big, but with the lack of furniture, it felt quite grand. In my head, it was a blank canvas. It was a space for someone to fill with both memories and some flair. But since I was in someone else’s home, it was a blank canvas I couldn’t really touch.

So, in an attempt to make the space my own, I bought a large, black papasan chair. But not one with a handcrafted wicker frame you might find on Etsy or at Pottery Barn. It definitely wasn’t one made with a large cozy cushion to relax on. It was just a simple, metal folding frame with a removable pillow. A chair meant to decorate the space of a college freshman’s dorm room.

Yet I still loved that chair. I did homework in that chair. When I had shin splints, I  iced my bruised legs in that chair. I spent hours talking to my mom on the phone in that chair.

But before long, it was time to move on. It was time for the space to be used by someone else, but I decided my legacy must live on. I left behind the chair, and as far as I know, there it still sits until today.

The Colorful House

My journey would continue at the house of a suburban family of four. Their colorful two-story home was an exciting contrast from what I had just left. A lavender purple living room with a dark purple couch and shelves of glass knick-knacks would serve as my welcome. A deep espresso-stained wood kitchen would provide me with nourishment. A dainty white bathroom for me to take a shower was maybe the one space not designed to engage all of my senses.

But in the bedroom, where I would spend most of my time, was once a space occupied by their son. He had already left the nest and moved across the country for college, but his bedroom was a time capsule, untouched since his departure.

The emerald green walls paired with black and red baseball-themed furniture definitely felt like they were chosen by a middle school boy. Hanging on the walls was a plethora of medals and ribbons, all won by a dedicated swimmer. Photos of an athlete celebrating with his team gave a glimpse of a former life. So, although I didn’t meet their son until it was almost time to move again, I still felt like I knew the boy who once occupied the room.

The Christmas House

My next move wouldn’t be a long stay. The family had promised their extra room to a friend of their college-aged son, but it was still a few months until his arrival. So, in the meantime, I had a new little space.

This time, my room was pretty plain again, but my stay would overlap with the Christmas holiday. And as many families do, they decorated the house with lights, stockings and other sparkly items.

It was the tree, though, that held their memories and legacy. Ornaments passed down through generations were displayed next to paper ones made in elementary school classrooms. So, although I had only met them a year before and their youngest was now a senior in high school, I was able to relive years of memories with them.

The Friends House

The next family who welcomed me in was a pair of sisters — twins, in fact. Twins not much older than myself. With that in mind, I wasn’t surprised to walk into their cozy two-bedroom condo that had posters from the TV show Friends hanging next to an abundance of family photos. In their rooms, beds were home to cute throw pillows from TJ Maxx and their most memorable stuffed animals. In their closets hung stylish clothes they would let me borrow, but on the floor were old dumbbells ready for the workout they were going to start “next week.”

But beyond the objects that filled the home, it was a space for two young women to grow and take the next steps towards independence. They would host dinners with their cousins and I was always invited. We would have TV nights and do each other’s nails. But, we would also make messes in the kitchen and freak out over things like bugs or spiders. No one was there to bail us out anymore — we were on our own.

But again, it was time to find a new home. I would pack up my things and the lessons I learned and move onto the next house.

The Comfy House

A tight-knit family of six would welcome me at my next destination. When I walked in on the first day, their eldest daughter, who was also my age, gave me the lay of the land. 

Her two younger sisters shared an upstairs bedroom — their matching twin beds, on opposite ends of the room, perfectly framed either side of the window. Her space was the office-turned-bedroom. After she graduated college and moved back home, her parents bought a brand new full-sized mattress, which was plenty of space for her five foot tall frame. But her brother, her six-foot-tall little brother, had the grandest bed of them all. His queen mattress filled the entirety of his room, leaving only a small sliver of space for someone to walk through.

My bed would be downstairs. I, like my tour guide, had a full sized bed to fit my small frame. Too bad I never really slept there…but we’ll get to that story.

The next stop on my tour was the living room. And in this room, next to a brown leather sectional, sat an old thrifted couch, transported right out of the 1990s. You know, the ones with a loud flowery pattern.

To the family, this couch was the most comfortable place in the entire house. It was officially dubbed “the nap couch.” I guess I took that title a little too seriously, though. Night after night I would fall asleep there, and thus it was renamed “Emily’s couch.”

Anyways, not only was this house filled with a million great places to sleep, it was filled with love and memories. Over my time there, I watched two of their kids graduate high school, helped one move into her freshman college dorm room, saw another graduate college and the oldest go on to grad school. They celebrated my skating successes with me and encouraged me when I decided to go back to school.

But just when I thought I had found a place I could stay a while, it was March 2020 and I was sent back to Wisconsin. But we don’t need to talk about that today.

The Opposite House

After a short, uneventful stay in my childhood bedroom, I would return to Chicago and stay with a new family. This time, it was a home I had been to before. So, when it was time to move in I knew what I was getting myself into.

But let me take you back to the first time I set eyes on this house. I don’t know what it was, but it instantly reminded me of my childhood home.

I hadn’t been inside yet, but I called the person who lived there — “Hey, I have a weird question,” I said.

“Okay, what is it?” he said.

“So, I think our houses are mirror images of each other. When you walk in the back, do you enter the kitchen?” I asked.

“Umm, yeah,” he said.

“Okay, and to get in the kitchen you have to walk up two little steps —”

He cut me off, “Wait, you have the two little steps, too?”

“Yeah I told you our houses are mirrors of each other!” I said.

Well, the conversation ended there, but I felt pretty satisfied with my discovery. It would be only a few weeks later, though, that I found out our houses were not mirror images of each other.

In fact, our households were quite opposite of each other. While my family was quiet and reserved, this family was loud and proud. I come from a small family of four with minimal extended family, while they have an extended family so large, I still can’t keep track of who’s who. It was this, among other things, that would end up causing disagreement and requiring a lot of growing up from me. When I realized this, I also realized one thing. I had been living in other people’s lives for a long time. 

The Final House

It was time to live on my own. 

Eight months ago, with the help of my parents, I moved into my own apartment. It’s a two-bedroom in an old courtyard building. The floor-to-ceiling bay window in the living room lets in the natural sunlight I’ve always craved.

I have a big blue comfy couch I sometimes fall asleep on, own the most grand queen-sized bed a girl could ask for, decorated my very own Christmas tree for the holiday, have a million stuffed animals that remind me of the best memories, and am looking for the perfect papasan chair so I can spend hours sitting in front of the window.

While I may finally have a space of my own, after what felt like invading others for so long, I will always carry a piece of the places that got me here.

Header Illustration by Camille Steinmetz