the evolution of a childhood bedroom

As I write this, I can see the pile of sweatshirts on the floor that I’ve been rotating through too often to justify hangers. I see the shoes I wear on my lunch break, the shoes I take walks in and my flip flops for sockless Sunday mornings. I see books on every surface, a stash of snacks, and bags still where they landed when I dropped them. Other times I see the entire floor, neatly arranged shelves and not a bag in sight. During those times, all sweatshirts get a hanger and the only shoes I see are the pair on my feet.

Fully unique, these experiences in the same space reflect workday and weekend, anxiety and calm, disarray and structure. This room is like the diorama of a habitat that I made for second grade science class. Upon analysis, it reveals what its creature has been up to and what it needs. And much like environmental evolution, this space is transformed in symbiosis with its inhabitant.

When I first moved into this room, my elementary school artwork created a wallpaper-like border near the ceiling and the stuffed animals on my bunk bed took up as much space as I did. Growing up, I developed an obsession for cats and I would cut out pictures from wall calendars to cover every blank space I could find. In high school I finally decided to paint but my teenage self was surprised by how closely related “light green” is to “ripe avocado.” I moved to college soon thereafter.

Over the following eight years I would live in nine different places, but mid-pandemic I found myself back in my bright-green childhood bedroom, working from home. There were still pictures of my high school boyfriend on the walls, artwork from college classes, and CDs I hadn’t listened to in over a decade. I couldn’t use the desk because of its role as a pseudo-office in my absence and after a few months of rotating between my bed and the kitchen table, I reworked the space. Framed artwork replaced old photographs and college projects were tucked away. Stationary and notebooks took the place of CDs while newly potted plants framed the books awaiting my attention. It felt like slipping into the pants that fit you perfectly.

Working from home during the pandemic has heightened the value of curating the spaces where I spend the most time. It’s brought awareness to the walls and the sheets and the shelves. It’s transitioned my relationship to this room into our newest phase of evolution. Preceded by two decades of growth, this iteration displays the inverse of myself as a child, now more outwardly refined but inwardly complex. Each time it feels like everything is falling into place, like a plant that’s been repotted and now has room to grow.

If you look closely, you see the evidence of another time, revelation of the “creature” who’s lived here before. There is still a pillow on the bed with cat-patterned fabric, the walls are still bright-green and the paperwork that covered the desk is neatly stashed behind framed photos. The sweatshirts and shoes strewn across the floor will tell you that I’ve been busy. But when you take in the space as a whole, you see a woman who’s returned home to grow into the next phase of herself.