Before Pinterest, before social media, before anybody cared, my room during high school in the early 2000s was decorated with magazines taped all over the walls. It proudly displayed gaudy wallpaper, an out-of-place blanket, and random trinkets. None of the furniture matched, and it didn’t matter.

It was home to pictures taken by my trusty disposable Kodak camera, printed promptly at the local K-Mart of course. A big radio took up all the space my dresser would allow, and a neon green cordless phone found its home on the floor next to my bed.

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My room didn’t follow any trends other than it was my own. It was my personal space to adorn with whatever represented me at the time. It was my safe place.

I recently came across a picture of my high school room, and the memories couldn’t help but flood back. The poetry I wrote within the walls, the music I listened to on my Discman, the laughs I shared with friends as we scrapbooked and ate junk food in the middle of the night.

The tears I cried over high school drama, the VHS movies I watched on weekend nights, and all the times I rearranged everything whenever I got bored. Memories I will never get back but shaped me all the same.

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Before I had a house to call my own, I had a room. To me, it was perfect, not only because it was mine, but because of all the memories we shared.

Originally published on the author’s Instagram page