A Room of My Own

Kassandra - Jericho, New York
Entered on March 6, 2008
Age Group: Under 18
  • Podcasts

    Sign up for our free, weekly podcast of featured essays. You can download recent episodes individually, or subscribe to automatically receive each podcast. Learn more.

  • FAQ

    Frequently asked questions about the This I Believe project, educational opportunities and more...

  • Top Essays USB Drive

    This USB drive contains 100 of the top This I Believe audio broadcasts of the last ten years, plus some favorites from Edward R. Murrow's radio series of the 1950s. It's perfect for personal or classroom use! Click here to learn more.

I dread the opening of an icy door, the icy door to ‘home sweet home.’ A pseudo-smile is plastered onto my face. It’s cracked and weathered at the edges.

But, you know, it’s always enough to fool the world, fool everyone that I’m happy and that everything’s absolutely fine.

No one ever knows that it’s absolutely not.

My parents utter synchronized, mechanical greetings when I finally muster the strength to go in. Their eyes fixated on the computer screen or television show. I suppose I like it better that way…their never knowing. I’m almost empowered by the fact that I can hide such intimate details of my life from them considering their immense influence over my—with the emphasis on ‘my’—life. Then again, I almost feel as if they should know that I’m hurting. Shouldn’t parents have some sort of internal radar for these things?

I walk as purposely as I can manage to my room. It’s down the hall, and even though it’s not a long stretch, each step feels as time-consuming as the eternal. I touch the gold knob, its shimmering warmth sending solace shimmying through my fingertips. Before I know it, I’m inside a heaven of sage and secrets, my door protectively shut behind me. Relief drapes over me like fair tresses of a morning sun as I throw my baggage to the side. Finally, I think. Finally, I’m home.

Finally, I’m safe.

My bedroom is my sanctuary. It’s my home within my home, my piece of frozen time comforted by memories, and an embrace of familiarity kissed with ambiguity. I don’t remember how my sanctuary came to be—just that it’s always been there for me. When angels’ tears splash onto my umbrella and their cries blow my dark hair into knotty messes, my sanctuary welcomes me with breezy arms and endless sunshine. Whatever my mood, whatever my problem…once through that door, it all whisks away.

What a whimsical existence, right?

This is why I believe that everyone should have a sanctuary to hide and confide in. Life, despite its fundamental gloriousness and spectacular secrets, has shadow-cloaked times where it feels like you against some omnipotent conspiracy—

See, that’s when a sanctuary, your own piece of serenity and respite, gallops in like your knight in shining armor, sweeping you off your welcoming feet, and takes you into a brighter horizon than the one you face.