There is a home we never stop living in, even when its doors have been shut for years and its windows look out onto a time that no longer exists. It is the home of our childhood: a real place, made up of walls, staircases and rooms, but above all an inner, emotional space that continues to live within us. Every time a memory is triggered, we return there, even if only for a moment.
The house of our childhood is never just a house. It is the first universe we come to know, the boundary within which we discover the world. In those rooms we learn to walk, to talk, to dream. The corridors become running tracks, the tables make-believe forts, the beds safe havens to retreat to. Every corner holds a story; every scratch on the wall a trace of our passage.
We often remember the sensations more than the details. The smell of coffee in the morning, the sound of keys in the lock, the light filtering through a particular window in the afternoon. There are sounds that stay with us forever: a door creaking, the floor groaning, someone’s voice calling us in for dinner. Even the silence had a sound, especially in the quietest hours, when the house seemed to breathe with us.
In many families, the kitchen was the beating heart of the home. A place for gatherings, stories and daily rituals. It was there that we did our homework, listened to the adults’ conversations and, without realising it, learnt to observe the world. The kitchen table was often the centre of it all: a place for shared meals, but also for confidences, reprimands and sudden bursts of laughter. Just sitting there was enough to feel part of something.
The bedroom, on the other hand, represented intimacy. It was the space for solitary games, whispered secrets and night-time fears. Under the duvets, we imagined distant worlds, made up stories and faced invisible monsters. In that room, our inner selves took shape – the silent dialogue with ourselves that would continue to accompany us as we grew up.
Not all childhood homes were equally happy. For some, those memories carry with them a sense of melancholy, absences and hardships. Yet even in these cases, the home remains a point of reference, a place where it all began. It is there that we learnt to persevere, to observe, to build defences or hopes. Even the cracks, whether real or symbolic, have helped to shape us.
As the years go by, the childhood home changes or disappears. It is sold, renovated, or occupied by others. Returning there can be an unsettling experience: the rooms seem smaller, the ceilings lower, the colours different. Yet, despite the changes, something remains intact. It is that deep sense of recognition, as if a part of us had stayed there waiting for us.
Our childhood home also influences the way we experience spaces as adults. We unconsciously seek out a similar light, a certain kind of silence, a familiar smell. We repeat gestures we’ve seen a thousand times: opening a window in the morning, arranging objects in a certain order, cooking a dish that tastes of home. In this way, we continue to carry that first refuge with us.
Talking about our childhood home means talking about our roots. It is an exercise in memory, but also in understanding who we have become. It was there that we took our first steps, made mistakes, learnt and loved. The home sheltered us when we were vulnerable and set us free when it was time to grow up.
In the end, perhaps, our childhood home is not a place to be physically rediscovered, but a space to be cherished. It lives on in memories, in stories, in the details that suddenly surface. It is a silent presence that accompanies us, reminding us where we come from and, in some way, who we truly are.
Is there a house from your childhood that, even today, still pops into your mind out of the blue? A scent, a sound, a particular room that you still feel is yours? If you’d like, do share it in the comments: every memory shared is a door that opens once more, a fragment of memory that lives on through the words of those who read it.
