The Room Time Forgot
October 3rd, 2025
Photo: Zoe Romeu
Writer: Claire Allison
Editor: Emma Minock
Before moving to college, I had only ever lived in one house–and within it one bedroom—my entire life. The four turquoise walls bear the imprints of my childhood, a color choice I, like many others, fell victim to in elementary school. Leaving a place that had been my safety net was utterly terrifying, but absolutely worth it. Before I knew it, freshman year had come and gone, and it was finally time to return to the room I knew best.
Summer at home felt like pressing pause on one life and pressing play on another. My routines, friendships, and even my self-image had shifted since leaving nine months prior. The only element of my life that remained was my bedroom. It was almost like it was frozen in time, down to the gum wrapper I left on my dresser before move-in day.
Cherished items and fond memories covered my room. One night in particular, I opened my closet and caught a glimpse of the sparkle of my prom dress hanging in the very back. I pulled it out, briefly contemplating its expired purpose. Realistically, I had no use for it anymore, and I considered selling it. College attire often does not include a floor-length gown. However, I could not bring myself to put a price on it. For whatever reason, it felt better to let it quietly live in the back of my closet than to part with a personal artifact that radiated nostalgia. As I glanced around the room, I noticed the other relics of my past hiding in plain sight. Above my desk, my diplomas from elementary, middle, and high school hung proudly in their mismatched frames. Twelve years of 6 am alarms, weekly pop quizzes, and after-school activities all diluted into three pieces of cardstock. On my dresser, my dated soccer trophies patiently sat in a perfectly straight line, now covered with a blanket of dust. I recalled a time when I was so proud of them, itching to tell anyone who would listen about each game, each goal, and each win.
Now, when people ask me what I am proud of, I do not mention soccer trophies or middle school diplomas. I would gush instead about the life that I have built for myself at college; the friendships that feel more like family, and all the new opportunities that promise excitement for the future.
These new accomplishments do not erase those of the little girl who still exists inside of me, beaming over plastic soccer trophies. She lingers within the walls of my bedroom, constantly making her presence known, reminding me that if it weren’t for her, there wouldn’t be me. My bedroom’s role as a time capsule of my adolescent life promises that even if everything else in my life changes, it will not.
That is the strange comfort of returning home: it is a reminder that growth does not erase who we once were, but rather builds on it. Everything will inevitably change, but I find such beauty in the memories of the past. Although I am nearly 19 now, in that room, I am 16, 11, 7, 3, 1 all at once. And I have every single one of them cheering me on.
