Coming Home Is Hard and That’s Fine Sometimes


Last week, I returned home. After two months of hungover walks in Treptower Park, drawn-out breakfasts with friends, and spaces filled with music, patchouli incense, and poetry, I came back to my childhood home to spend time with family, record new music, and self-isolate.

After having been sent off by three of the most radiant, loving people I’d ever met after a massive breakfast together and a loud Uber ride full of hugs and I will miss you’s, I arrived at a train station in Aachen to find my dad waiting for me with a coke and a banana. It was a bit of an anticlimactic welcome when he sprayed my hands with alcohol before hugging me. “You sure you don’t have corona?” he asked. “Not at all,” I replied.

I had this vision of what being home would be like – a little like ‘Walden’. In Belgium, where lockdown is still in full force, I imagined I’d fill my life with contemplation, long walks, and writing. Even though I was gutted I had to say goodbye to my friends and a city that had taught me so much, I was also looking forward to all the deep insights I would have in my hometown.

Instead, I had massive FOMO. All I could do on that first day was imagining the excitement I was missing in lockdown Berlin. To ground me, I wrote down a list of challenges for my stay in Belgium. What was I gonna do to make my time here worth it? I wrote down so many goals it ended up stressing me out more. I tried meditating in the morning to ease my anxiety and ended up crying for an hour before leaving the bedroom. All the while, I was terrified of picking up the phone and calling my friends to offload. All these thoughts are first world problems after all.

It was a weird shift being back home with my parents. Everything I did – from how strong I drank my coffee to the weird itch behind my left ear – seemed scrutinised and analysed. “Why do you wanna go back to Berlin?” my mum asked. And when I told her, she replied: “We’ll see about that,” as if I hadn’t moved out of the house almost three years ago and was waiting for her seal of approval. Which I was! Every small comment set me on edge, and in just one week, my journal went from talking about how happy and centred I felt to how small and unsure of my choices I had become. The walls I had carefully constructed around myself in Berlin had started crumbling, and I was letting everything in again – the doubt, the anxiety, the stress.

I wanted to come to everything from a place of love, but, increasingly, I had started to come to everything from a place of fear and insecurity, including my music. My practice sessions became regimented and timed, and if I didn’t accomplish what I’d set out to do, I considered the day a failure. Even though I had more time than I did in Berlin, where I was working, studying, making music, and spending time with friends, my days here seemed busier and I collapsed in bed at eleven after a full day of to-do lists. I hadn’t really laughed in a week. I snapped at my parents. But I did make a kickass apple cake last Tuesday, which was ace.

But yesterday, a friend called me and she had that warm, radiant voice that made me light up. She was watching the sunset at Tempelhof and thinking of me. And she said that coming home to her parents made her dislike who she was with them, and I exclaimed: “Yes, me too!” It’s like a fight you can’t win. You’re always going back to that person you’re trying to escape. And it’s not your mum or your dad, it’s you and that unfortunate picture where you look like a 12-year-old boy that your mum has hung on the wall in the hall.

Maybe being here is not going to be the contemplative practice I’d imagined, but it is a spiritual practice nonetheless. It is not going to be the glorified, romantic spiritual journey of walking in the woods (what woods?) and writing in solitude. It is going to be a tug of war with my parents about my every decision, I am going to question my ideas and to doubt myself many, many times over the next month. But maybe that will make me stronger than a solitary retreat ever could.

I came here feeling rooted in love and community, with the idea that I had found what I had been looking for as an artist, as a friend, and as a woman. Now, that feeling of rootedness feels like a distant memory. I guess it’s because we can’t run from ourselves. And coming home means coming face-to-face with yourself in the most confrontational way.

Usually, this knowledge makes me feel overwhelmed. But this time, I’m going to take the time to acknowledge this feeling. I want to take it in, think about it, wallow for a little, and maybe write some songs about my parents and my teenage years. Then I’m gonna let it go. All because the good feeling I talked about, that light that exists inside of all of us… I want it to shine here too. And that’s why I can’t run back to Berlin just yet. Because I’m home. And I’m dealing with it.

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