When Your Own Home Suddenly Feels Strange After a Holiday

By Regine Rauin | When Rooms Tell Stories

 

Sometimes I come home and think:

Who actually lives here?

Don’t worry. I haven’t acquired a new housemate. I actually know the woman who lives here rather well.

And yet, after a longer trip, something strange happens again and again: my own home suddenly feels unfamiliar.

Not unpleasant.

Not wrong.

Just … unfamiliar.

And these days, I rather love that moment. Because then I play a little game with myself. I pretend I’m an alien.

I don’t know the person who lives in this house. I know nothing about their story. I don’t know how old they are, what they do for a living, who they love, what they’re afraid of or what they dream about.

All I have is this home.

And now I have to work out:

What kind of person lives here?

 

A bit like a crime scene investigation. Just without the body.

I walk through the rooms and look around. Not with the question, “Do I like this?”

I already know that one, after all. Instead, I look through the eyes of a stranger.

What do I notice immediately?

What seems important to this person?

Is this someone who likes having people around?

Or someone who would rather be left in peace?

Are there places where you can simply sit and do nothing?

Or does every piece of furniture have some sort of function and is presumably already waiting for its owner to get on with something?

Is this home open to visitors?

Or would anyone who turned up unannounced need to have made an appointment about three days in advance?

What is displayed?

What is hidden?

What gets used?

What is simply left lying around?

What is obviously loved?

And what seems to be here simply because nobody has decided that it is allowed to leave?

And suddenly I’m standing in the middle of a novel whose main character hasn’t appeared yet.

 

The interesting thing is: I already know the answers.

And yet I don’t know them anymore. Because when I’m right in the middle of everyday life, I mostly don’t actually see my home – consciously.

I use it.

I go into the kitchen because I want to make coffee.

I go into the bedroom because I want to sleep.

I sit on the sofa because I’m tired.

I no longer see the wardrobe.

I only see what I need from the wardrobe.

I no longer see the room.

I see my to-do list inside it.

That’s exactly what happens to us with our homes:

We get used to what surrounds us.

And familiarity is an excellent disguise.

 

The annoying bit: after a trip, the disguise no longer works

Perhaps you know the feeling. You come back after two or three weeks and suddenly you see:

Oh.

There’s that pile of newspapers again.

Why is that picture actually hanging there?

Why do I hardly ever use this room?

What is that odd chair doing there?

Why is my bedroom so dark?

Why do I have so many things?

And above all:

Why doesn’t this feel the way I thought it would?

The strange thing is: the home hasn’t changed.

You have.

At least for a moment. You’ve been somewhere else. You’ve met different people. Heard different sounds. Taken different routes. Perhaps eaten differently. Slept differently.

Maybe laughed more.

Maybe had more time alone.

Maybe spent more time around other people.

And now you come back and suddenly see your home from this new perspective.

 

That’s exactly why I do this little alien test.

I imagine:

If I didn’t know myself – what would I assume about me?

Perhaps I would think:

Someone who lives here needs order. That’s true. Very much so. Before a trip, I deliberately leave my home tidy. Not because I’ve suddenly transformed into an obsessive neat freak.

But because I know exactly this:

When I come home, I don’t want to have to fight the life I’ve just left behind.

I want to open the door and think:

Ah. Lovely. I’m back.

That tells me something about myself too.

 

But now it gets interesting.

Because the crucial question isn’t:

“What does my home say about me?”

It’s:

“Does what it says still fit me?”

Perhaps your home still shows you exactly who you were ten years ago. Perhaps it is full of things from a phase of life that ended a long time ago. Perhaps you arranged rooms around someone who is no longer part of your life.

Perhaps you built the perfect home for the person you once wanted to become.

And perhaps, by now, you are someone entirely different.

That doesn’t have to be dramatic.

Sometimes it’s just a small difference. You used to love having guests. These days you need more peace and quiet. You used to work a lot. Now you finally want to live more. You used to keep everything. Now you want to feel lighter.

You used to need a large dining table.

Now you’d much rather sit somewhere outside and spontaneously spend time with people.

 

The home isn’t an oracle.

It doesn’t say:

“You need to move house.”

Nor does it say:

“This table is the reason for all your problems.”

That would be nonsense.

A table is, first and foremost, a table.

But the story we have with it is interesting.

Why is it there?

Why does it stay there?

Why are we attached to it?

Why don’t we change it?

Why have we been saying for five years:

“One day I’ll do something different with this”?

That is where the reading begins.

Not with the meaning of an object.

But with the relationship between person and space.

 

And perhaps you’d like to try this yourself.

Imagine you’ve only just moved in. You don’t know the person who lives here. You know nothing about them. All you have is the home.

Then walk slowly through your rooms.

And ask yourself:

What would I assume about this person?

Don’t judge.

Don’t improve.

Just observe.

And if you notice something that surprises you, ask the next question:

“Why do I actually believe that?”

Perhaps you’ll arrive at an insight quite quickly.

Perhaps you’ll arrive at a question instead.

And sometimes a good question is worth far more than a quick answer.

 

Perhaps your home hasn’t actually become unfamiliar.

Perhaps you’ve simply seen it with different eyes for the first time in a long while. With the eyes of someone returning from the outside.

And perhaps it’s worth holding on to that perspective for a little longer.

Because when you can look at your home like a stranger, you can suddenly discover something that has become invisible in everyday life:

The story of the person who lives here.

And then there’s only one rather interesting question left:

 

Does that story still fit you?

About the Author

I'm Regine Rauin, also known as Mystic Maveress.

I read rooms the way other people read tarot cards.

And every now and then...

...I write a book.

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🗝️ Because many of the answers are already living with you.