i was flipping through old photos yesterday.
some made me laugh, a lot made me smile,
some made me reminisce on years that seem very long ago...
but the one photo that stood out the most to me wasn't a picture of me, or family...
the picture that stood out the most was a picture of the house i grew up in.
when i say grew up in, i mean it literally.
we moved into that house
{after my parents built it from the ground up}
when i was just 3 years old.
i moved out when i was 18--
i went off to college,
and due to their divorce,
my parents sold the only house i had ever known...
the house that has my handprints in the cement on the garage floor.
the house that i learned to ride a bike in front of...
the house that i had my first real kiss with the husband in front of.
i am fairly certain i could tell you exactly how many stairs are in each of the staircases.
i could probably walk through the entire house blindfolded and not get hurt.
looking at this single picture brings back a flood of so many memories.
happy memories.
sad memories.
great memories.
memories that have lead me to who i am today.
my first few years in college were rough years for me.
looking back on them, i realize that i struggled with depression worse than i care to admit.
all the changes i was going through definitely attributed to the depression
i know that having to give up the only home i ever knew did too.
have you ever heard the miranda lambert song, "the house that built me"?
she puts into words exactly how i felt:
{"I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
this brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here its like I'm someone else,
I thought that maybe I could find myself.
If I could just come in I swear I'll leave.
Won't take nothing but a memory from the house that built me."}
even though the depression is gone now, and i'm married with a daughter...
i'd be lying if i said i wouldn't want to go back inside.
