The Path Back Home

Navigating a broken home

This article is part of the Claritas spring 2024 issue, Home. Read the full print release here.

By: emily nelson

A “Perfect” Home

As a child, it is hard to imagine that your family is any different from the rest. I grew up in a large, fun-loving family of eight. We went to church every Sunday and Wednesday and prioritized our faith. Home-cooked family dinners began with a prayer, and our nights ended with board games and good-natured teasing. My family looked perfect from the outside. We had all the right things going for us: my parents were loving, we (mostly) behaved as kids, and we were involved in a faith community.

Of course, no family is perfect, and ours felt the pain of merging two households into one. I grew up as the youngest in a blended family, but I never felt like any of my siblings were less than blood. We were brought up together in various houses that were made homes because of the love they contained.

We lived like packed sardines in a small four-bedroom house during a period of financial hardship. At other times, we lived in colossal houses that felt dwarfed by our exuberant presence. Growing up with an abundance of siblings and love, I equated home with people, not places.

By my senior year of high school, my home consisted of just my parents and twin brother. My idealistic view of home still played out by what was left of our original crew, but I had begun to realize that my oh-so-perfect family did indeed have faults. Nonetheless, I felt that my “home” was relatively stable. I mean, after all, you could still find my parents amongst the crowd at cross-country meets or seated together at church on a Sunday morning.

What I could not have predicted was that under the facade of our perfect home was a foundation littered with cracks.

On April 9, 2022, my mother told me that she and my father were separating.

On April 10, 2022, she moved out of our house.

On December 1, 2022, the divorce was finalized.

The events in between my parents’ separation and divorce felt like a series of experiences stolen from me. They separated at a critical moment in my life—right before I graduated high school and transitioned into college. The time between my parents’ initial separation and finalized divorce punctuated my existence with unwelcome reminders of what once was. No longer could I attend prom or senior banquets to commemorate my adolescence without being reminded of the sudden loss of stability. I pictured a neat close to the chapter of my childhood but instead found myself questioning my upbringing and relationship with my parents.

A Broken Home

April 9, 2022

In the culmination of four years of dedication to the agricultural organization Future Farmers of America (FFA), I was elected Missouri FFA Vice President. I poured my heart and soul into two prior days of interviews. When I saw my name flash on the screen of newly elected officers, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I had not realized my shoulders were held tightly to my ears until they slid back down with a welcome exhalation of tension. My previous anxieties were replaced with excitement for the year to come. I was practically buzzing with joy as I imagined the impact I would make serving 26,000 FFA members alongside 15 other newly elected officers. This was the moment I had been praying for.

I was still riding on the high of adrenaline from being elected when, only a half hour after the announcement, my mom pulled me aside into the hallway to tell me some news. We barely celebrated with a hug before she told me she and my dad were separating and that she would be moving out the very next day. I stared at her dumbfounded in utter shock. In the moment prior, we shared a meaningful embrace, and now I couldn’t even be close to her. The hallway felt too narrow. I needed time to think, but instead, I had to step out of the hallway to rejoin my new team for our first meeting with a fake smile slapped across my face and betrayal hidden in my eyes.

Forever these two emotionally charged events would be held together—the day I was elected for state office and the day my parents split. How dare my parents take this special moment in my life and ruin it with their selfish news? Could my parents not hold it together for just a measly month? Even 24 hours? Enough time to graduate and leave home, or even to just simply celebrate my success?

My agricultural advisor drove me the four hours home—a car ride filled with sorrow instead of joy. Home to a place that no longer felt like home at all, but a mere echo of what it once was. I resonated with the song “Lights Are On” by Tom Rosenthal, which goes “God stood me up / And I don’t know why / Lights are on / But nobody’s home.” [1] I felt numb. Betrayed. I lacked even the energy for an emotional release. Why was this happening to me? How unfair of my parents to fall apart now. Couldn’t they hold it together a little longer? Where was God in the middle of this?

May 7, 2022

High school graduation arrived without triumph. The future felt particularly precarious, so I decided to tell only a few friends about my parent’s recent separation. Why burden others with this news when we may not even be friends in just a few months' time? 

At graduation, my family’s attention temporarily turned towards celebrating me and my twin brother. My aunts fussed over the details of decorations and food, while my parents attempted to exist in the same room together. At one point, a brief moment of harsh and frustrated words erupted between my parents before our graduation party—which only infused the room with more tension. It was hard to feel excited about graduating when there was no joy in my house. It felt like something that had to be performed rather than celebrated.

The ceremony itself held the same tense and forced happiness. Our diplomas were secured and speeches were given. Afterward, photos were taken, which further added a dimension of loss. Both my Mom and Dad needed separate photos. Then one together to pretend like we were still an intact family. Why were even the little things so hard? I didn’t realize that taking a photo could cause so much pain. And now here it was captured forever in an image.

July 17, 2022

My car felt safer than inside my house. The summer air was thick with moisture and sorrow. Sitting in the driveway I could see the shell of what once was my home and examine it from the safety of another vessel. The lyrics “I feel like I want to go home / But I am home,” by “Under the Rug” perfectly captured my feelings. [2] There I was, sitting in my car in front of my house, realizing that my car felt more like home than any other place. It served as a vehicle of escape that let me run from my reality.

August 18, 2022

The summer before the fall semester of my freshman year of college felt surreal and hazy. I spent most of it doing whatever arduous task Missouri FFA had laid out for me. Immersing myself in constant motion allowed me to escape my current reality. If I could just focus on the task at hand I would not have time to ponder what home meant to me. I found peace in the constant noise and distraction.

Eventually, it was time to move into my freshman-year dorm. My brother and I packed our respective cars to the brim and drove to The University of Missouri (Mizzou).

Our convoy joined the lengthy line of cars waiting to unpack. When I arrived at my room, it felt sterile, like a hospital room with fluorescent lighting and barren walls. Over the next few hours, I attempted to transform the dingy room into something that resembled a home.

That night, instead of having a goodbye meal, we ate crappy pizza and pasta to-go from a dining hall in separate rooms. There were no tearful goodbyes—just awkward hugs and a hint of desolation. It didn’t feel how it was supposed to.

At night I laid in my bed and contemplated the next semester. Would I make new friends? Should I tell people about my parents’ separation? I wanted them to know for context and the ability to bond, but I definitely didn't want to burden anyone. Is this tiny room really my home now? Do I belong here? And if not here, then where?

December 1, 2022

As I adjusted to campus life, my fears for the semester were eased. My once dreary room finally started to feel cozy and homey. I settled into a routine and found a campus ministry that rallied around me as I processed moving away and losing my ‘home.’ I found my people on the once-overwhelming campus at Mizzou. Things were not perfect, but they were good.

Winter crept onto campus. The air was crisp, which sharpened my thinking. My parents finalized their divorce, and the sharp pang of hurt I felt towards them dulled. I came to realize my parents are just people too. My first semester gave me the space and perspective I needed to process my new life. Centering my worldview around the idea of a “perfect home” created unrealistic expectations of others and myself.

The past eight months of my life had not been what I had planned. But the anger and betrayal I initially felt turned into grief. I grieved not only the loss of my home but also for my parents. 

I never expected my parents to get divorced, but they also never expected their lives to go the way they did. They both grew up in homes with little means and were forced to grow up fast. My mom had her first kid when she was just 19 years old. My dad only ever earned his high school degree and worked whatever job he could to keep food on our plates. My parents made sacrifices so I could have a future they could not. While I can never fully understand why my parents decided they needed to divorce, it was time I recognized that the story of their separation extends beyond just how it impacts me. They too are experiencing loss. With the fall of fresh snow, a blanket of grace can be extended to both the earth and my parents.

More than a Home

I long equated who I was with my home and upbringing. When this logic failed, I had to find a new definition of “home.” I still associate home with people, but today, I no longer hold them to a standard of perfection. The people who make up my “home” are messy and broken. They are not only the people who raised me but also the communities that support me.

When I made the transition to college, I feared that the upheaval in my life would make me feel ostracized. However, I remained steadfast in my faith, and God provided for me in big ways I could not have dreamed of. I was doing my best to live out Proverbs 3:5-6, which states, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take.” [3] Throughout my parents’ separation, I leaned desperately into my faith and called out to God. I was lost and He guided me.

I prayed for a community that could support me and mentors who could guide me and hold me accountable through my first semester of college. My prayer was answered when I moved into the Mizzou Christian Campus House (CCH) spring semester. I met with the head pastor to talk about my story and why I wanted to live in a faith-based community. After our conversation, he extended an invitation for me to move in. Normally, students are not allowed to move out of the dorms partway through the school year, but an exception was made. Things were working out in ways I could not orchestrate. Someone was guiding my path.

My integration into Mizzou CCH provided me with the mentors and community I craved. In Bible studies, I was encouraged by the word of God and by praying over others. I created deep relationships. My capacity for empathy increased as I listened to others around me and learned how to love them better. I gained a newfound respect for my parents when I practiced extending empathy to them and viewed my parents’ divorce from their perspective. 

 A Bible verse that had always perplexed me became apparent. James 1:2 says, “Dear brothers and sisters, when troubles of any kind come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy.” [4] Originally, I felt that it was absurd to consider hardship as anything but painful. When my parents initially split up, I felt as though God had abandoned me. Now, I can see that my troubles extended my worldview beyond myself and allowed me to empathize more with others.

Broken people create broken homes. My parents are fallible, just like I am, but they still deserve the same love I had expressed when I thought they were perfect. Regardless of the state of my home, I can still find joy in all circumstances. 

[1] Rosenthal, Tom. Lights Are On. Tinpot Records, 7 Sept. 2018.

[2] Posen, Ariel, et al. Lonesome & Mad. Under the Rug, 7 Dec. 2022.

[4] Proverbs 3:5-6 (NLT)

[3] Jame 1:2 (NLT)