Bedrooms are sacred spaces.

They’re dance floors and hideaways and castles for sleep and the lack of it. They’re 3 AM thinking chambers, makeshift recording studios, hospitals for brains that work themselves too hard.

I’ve had 3 so far. My childhood room, a perpetually humid dorm in Main Campbell Hall, my cozy off-campus apartment with valley views and cows roaming the backyard, and now– back to my roots for the time being.

I’ve occupied this same little corner of our townhouse for almost 19 years. Hometown air, population one and only, the only neighborhood I’ve ever known inside and out, neighbors and all. Over the span of its lifetime, its walls have primarily been bubblegum pink, the subject of countless poems and memoir snippets. Always bubblegum pink under changing decor: blurry photos held up by Scotch tape, fashion inspiration torn from magazines and my own art. Fairy lights and shrines to musicians and kitschy teenage clutter. It’s the same room but never constant.

Bedrooms are living creatures. They breathe and grow when we do.

Gone are the days of watercolor paintings I’d hang from elementary school art class, or Disney Princess wallpaper and a canopy bed fit for an only child, and my unapologetic high school angst– angry manifestos of my identity as a self-proclaimed “Girl on Fire.” It’s weird seeing this place painted over.

It’s different now. The same spring air billows the curtains, but the backdrop is calmer. An organized bookshelf, a vase of fresh-cut roses, a photo of the boy I love on my nightstand.

I think I like it here. I can breathe easy and these walls can, too.

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