When I first moved to Houston last year, I thought I understood what the word “home” meant. I always imagined home as the neighborhood where I grew up, the voices I heard everyday, the food my mom made, and the streets I didn’t have to think twice about walking. I didn’t really question it. Home was just everything familiar.
But the night I arrived in Houston, I remember how everything felt wrong. The air smelled different, the silence was louder, and even the light in the room felt sharper. I didn't unpack for a long time. I just sat there on the edge of my bed, staring at a window that didn't look like any window I had ever seen before. I didn't know a single person here. Everything was new, and because everything was new, it felt like everything had been taken away from me.
That's the part people don't talk about when they talk about "moving" or "starting fresh." It sounds exciting in theory. In reality? It feels like losing something, even when you know you're gaining something too.
That first week, every small sound and feeling reminded me I was alone. I walked around unfamiliar streets, wondering if I looked lost. I cooked simple food but nothing tasted like home. I tried to call a friend from back home, but the connection felt too distant. I felt like I had been dropped in a place that didn’t know me, and I didn’t know it.
I read about Ellis Island, the gateway through which millions passed between 1892 and 1954, in search of new lives in a strange land. More than 12 million immigrants made their way through that island, many leaving everything familiar behind. I thought of them, crowded in steerage, facing unknown futures, trusting that somewhere beyond the water they would find belonging. It made me feel connected to something bigger-a human story of leaving and starting again.
Yet, I didn't feel like I was part of a grand story. I felt like a freshman trying to find her footing. The classes started. I met people — classmates, roommates, friendly strangers in hallways. At first, conversations were awkward. People asked where I was from, sometimes with curiosity, sometimes like it was small talk. I wasn’t sure how to answer. Because “home” didn’t feel like one place anymore.
Then came tiny shifts. One night I cooked a dish I used to eat back home. The smells filled the kitchen, warm and familiar, and for a second I closed my eyes and felt like I was sixteen again, sitting at the dinner table surrounded by family. Another night I stayed up studying with classmates; we laughed about how we had no idea what we were doing. Someone put on a song I recognized — a song I used to share with friends back home. Music, it seems, has a strange way of bridging worlds.
I started to build new routines. I found a small café where the barista smiled even before I ordered. I learned which bus stops get crowded at what times. I walked around the city late at night, headphones in, recreating a sense of freedom I used to feel on my old street. Slowly, I began to feel something shift.
I realized home isn't just the place you come from. Sometimes it's the place that welcomes you when you're ready to be yourself. It's the space where you feel safe enough to laugh, to study, to cry. It's not guaranteed. You build it - like you build trust, like you build friendships, like you build identity.
That feeling took time. Even now, I don’t think I’m “settled.” I carry homesickness in my backpack when I see something familiar online or hear a language I used to speak every day. I miss the ease of old routines, the comfort of known faces. There are nights when I close my eyes and imagine I’m back there — where nothing was new, and nothing was strange.
But I also feel growth. I feel stronger. I feel more aware. I feel hopeful. I look around and see walls that may never look like the place I grew up in, but they hold more than furniture — they hold a future I'm starting to build.
Maybe that is the real magic in moving: It forces you to unpack more than boxes. You unpack parts of yourself you didn't know you had. You confront uncertainty. You rebuild. You forge connections.
It puts things into perspective, thinking about those millions that went through Ellis Island; they came with almost nothing, and many built whole lives, families, communities. If they could do that, maybe what I'm doing now, quietly unpacking, cooking, studying late, making friends, is part of something real.
Because home is not just a place where you start. It's a place you make. It's a place that sees you, even when you feel invisible. It's a place you grow into.
Moving here did not delete my memories, did not delete where I came from. Moving here added a new chapter. What it did was add a new chapter. My roots are still partly there, in that childhood street, in familiar smells and voices. But new roots are growing here now — in late-night walks, in textbooks, in dorm conversations, in lonely nights turned into small victories.
When people ask me “Where are you from?” now, I no longer have one single answer. I tell them I'm from where I grew up — and also from right here. Because home is not always about geography. It's about belonging. It's about survival. It's about growing.
And for me, home isn’t done growing yet.
Work Cited
“History & Culture.” Ellis Island Part of Statue of Liberty National Monument, National Park Service.
“Ellis Island closes its doors.” HISTORY.com.
“At Peak, Most Immigrants Arriving at Ellis Island Were Processed in a Few Hours.” HISTORY.com.
When I wrote my response to James Baldwin’s “The Creative Process,” I didn’t just want to analyze his ideas—I wanted to connect them to how I actually feel about art and truth. Writing has always been my way of figuring things out, especially when I can’t explain how I feel out loud. Baldwin’s line about “the state of being alone” really hit me because I’ve felt that silence before, where it’s just you and your thoughts and you can’t run away from them. I think that’s what made me write the piece the way I did—I wanted it to feel honest, not like an essay full of fancy analysis, but more like something real people could relate to.
Socially, I think a lot about how people today avoid being honest, especially online. Everyone shows their best version of themselves, but rarely what’s real. That’s why Baldwin’s message about artists having to face uncomfortable truths stood out to me. It reminded me that honesty takes courage, and it’s something we all need more of. I wanted to connect that idea to how my generation deals with truth—we talk a lot about “being real,” but it’s still hard to actually do it. Writing this made me think that art, whether it’s a song, a poem, or even a post, is one of the few places where people still try to tell the truth.
When I learned that Baldwin wrote this during the Civil Rights Movement, it gave the essay a whole new meaning for me. It wasn’t just about creativity—it was about fighting to be heard in a time when that was dangerous. That made me respect his words even more because he was using art to challenge society. I think that’s something that still matters now. Artists today might not face the same exact struggles, but they still risk a lot when they speak out about injustice or identity. Baldwin’s line about the artist being “the disturber of the peace” made me realize that art isn’t supposed to make people comfortable—it’s supposed to make them think.
When I was writing my piece, I didn’t plan everything out. I just started with what stood out to me and followed my thoughts from there. I used the forest image because that’s what popped into my head when Baldwin talked about “darkness.” I wanted my writing to feel emotional and reflective instead of stiff or academic. The hardest part was trying to sound natural while still explaining Baldwin’s ideas. I kept going back to make sure it sounded like me and not like I copied someone else’s style. In the end, I think it worked because the piece felt like a mix of Baldwin’s truth and my own.
Artistically, I’ve always been inspired by people who write or create from a place of honesty. Musicians like Billie Eilish and SZA, for example, aren’t afraid to be vulnerable, and I think that’s why people connect with them so much. Baldwin reminded me that real art comes from being brave enough to tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. That’s something I want to keep doing in my own writing—being real, even if it’s messy. My hope is that this piece makes readers stop and think for a second, the same way Baldwin’s essay made me. I want to keep growing as a writer, learning how to be honest in ways that actually reach people, and not being afraid to step into the “darkness” to find something true.
Esha Lutfi is a student at Houston Community College majoring in Health and Medical Sciences.