The 4 Rooms of Homecoming
A framework for finding your way back to yourself
by Sydney Niermann
I grew up everywhere and nowhere. I didn’t belong to a country, a culture, or even a version of myself. My childhood was constant motion: new schools, new countries, new homes. I spent my life adapting, blending in, becoming whoever I needed to be to survive. I moved every 12 to 18 months for fourteen years, and even after high school, college, and post-college, I kept moving.
2025 has been intense. According to the Chinese zodiac, it’s the year of the Wood Snake, traditionally a symbol of shedding old identities, facing harsh truths, and uncovering hidden patterns. The Snake reminds us that transformation often happens quietly, behind the scenes, and asks us to confront what no longer serves us. Looking back, January me is not December me; the shifts, revelations, and internal rebirth of this year have been subtle but real. Next year, the year of the Horse, is about momentum and action; a chance to take what we’ve learned and move forward with clarity. For me, this framework, the “rooms,” is my way of taking stock of that transformation, understanding what to carry forward, and defining what “home” can mean this year.
This year, I’ve moved states and apartments twice, recovered from two months of barely walking after ACL and meniscus surgery, lost my soul dog of 12 years, and experienced heartbreak after a nearly four-year relationship with my college sweetheart ended. But I’m healthy. My family is healthy. I have a new puppy whose life I was able to save. And now I’m about to close on my first home. I’m 27, starting over, and finally forcing myself to lay roots. Which brings me here, to this blog.
As a third-culture kid, I learned early that “home” isn’t always a place. I was born in Hong Kong to American expat parents from Illinois. My parents raised me, my sister, and my brother in schools across mostly Southeast Asia—Tokyo, Shanghai, Australia, Hong Kong, and Singapore—before eventually settling in California. I moved to Eugene, Oregon for college, and now I’m writing from cold, foggy Portland.
From left to right: Sydney Niermann (author), Delaney Niermann (younger sister), Nicolette Shiel and Isobel Shiel (expat family friends).
Home can be a state of being. I’ve spent my life searching for it, not geographically but internally.
To an extent, we all have. In a world dominated by what I call the “big three”—politics, technology, and capitalism—it’s no wonder so many of us struggle with identity loss and disconnection from self.
For years, I considered calling this framework the “pillars of coming home.” But pillars felt cold, impersonal, and boring. I wanted something tangible, visual: something that could hold memory, habit, and choice. That’s when I realized: rooms.
Rooms are spaces you can enter, explore, and return to. They hold light, shadows, warmth, and clutter, just like our inner selves. Visiting these rooms is a way to come home to yourself.
After years of running physically, emotionally, and mentally, I’ve realized that returning to these rooms is what anchors me when life feels uncertain. They’re not linear. There’s no single path. Homes, like our inner worlds, have hallways, staircases, windows, doors, and hidden corners. Every room contributes to the structure. Every room is a place to reflect, restore, and rebuild.
These rooms aren’t measured by chestnut oak floors or Baccarat crystal chandeliers. They shape the windows through which we see the world. Perspective matters, but how often do we actually look inward to see what shapes our worldview and judgments? How do we tend to these rooms so they become comfortable home bases? What do we do when the hallways are hazy and the path forward is unclear?
It’s easy to get lost in a thought loop. I have my whole life. That loop has led to toxic relationships, people-pleasing, abandonment of self, even substance use—anything to quiet the endless questions: who, what, when, where, why?
Is it a survival mechanism from childhood? A response to moving between British, international, and American school systems? Or part of the DNA of third-culture kids, whose lives straddle worlds, identities, and expectations?
Perhaps this framework can help, not just me but anyone who has ever felt unmoored.
Here are the four rooms of homecoming: the spaces I visit when I need to find myself.
1. The Mirror Room: Identity
Who am I when no one’s watching?
This is the room where you see yourself without performance or expectation. Identity is often layered, borrowed, and adaptive.
At its core, identity is your values, morals, and what you truly care about. Who are you when no one is watching?
If that still feels abstract, get specific: what music is playing? What’s the lighting like? Do you light a candle or notice the scents in your space? Are you doing something creative, like playing guitar, writing, drawing, watering plants, or walking your dogs? Or are you doomscrolling, half-present, hopping to the next distraction to escape yourself?
Identity is being fully in the moment with yourself. That’s why it’s hard. Otherwise, meditation would be something most of us do daily. Canadian physician and addiction expert Dr. Gabor Maté explains it simply:
“Knowing oneself comes from attending with compassionate curiosity to what is happening within.”
Mindful practices, whether meditation, journaling, or pausing to notice yourself, aren’t about emptying your mind. They are about observing yourself without judgment. This practice reconnects you with your authentic self and strengthens the presence that forms the foundation of identity.
Ask yourself:
Which parts of me feel authentic, and which are survival mechanisms?
Which versions of myself have I adopted just to belong?
What does my true self want to show the world if no one were judging?
2. The Anchor Room: Safety
How do I regulate myself? How do I make my body and mind a safe place to live?
This room is about grounding, presence, and internal stability. Safety isn’t only external; it’s created inside. Rituals, routines, and small practices are anchors in a chaotic world.
For me, my anchor is nature. At first, embracing the stillness and vastness of the outdoors felt endless, vapid, even terrifying. But replacing that disdain with awe and curiosity changed everything. After a lifetime of chaos, Oregon’s open spaces and opportunities for exploration became quietly restorative. I used to think I needed constant stimulation. Now my nervous system thrives perched on a rock 11,000 feet above the ground or snowboarding through fresh powder while listening to Yacht Rock.
A small task for you: identify one daily ritual that consistently brings you back to center, whether it’s a walk, journaling, breathwork, or making your morning coffee mindfully. Commit to it this week. For me, it’s getting my dogs out every morning, no matter how tired, wet, or cold I feel. Early work shift? Still go. It’s programmed, safe, and healthy.
3. The Connection Room: Belonging
Who is allowed to sit at my table? Who sees me? Who drains me?
Belonging isn’t about fitting in everywhere. It’s about choosing where and with whom you invest your energy. This room is about relationships, chosen family, and authentic connection.
For me, music holds memory. Every time I hear Dean Martin or Hall & Oates, little Sydney twirls with her dad, laughing in the car. Those songs carry the comfort of drives across Shanghai’s bridges or up to Big Bear Lake. That sense of belonging stays with you, no matter where you go.
Check in with yourself as you move into 2026:
Which relationships bring me life, and which drain me?
Who truly sees me, and how can I nurture those connections?
What boundaries can I set to protect my energy?
4. The Ritual Room: Practice
What daily habits stitch me back together?
This is where intention meets action. Small, consistent practices remind you that you are present, capable, and home in yourself.
Pick one micro-practice to anchor yourself each day for a week, whether it’s journaling, meditation, stretching, or mindful walking. Yes, eye roll, I know, but repetition works. Simply proving something to yourself, showing determination and consistency, creates a reward loop with yourself. It builds trust, confidence, and reinforces the sense of being “at home” in your own skin.
These rooms aren’t rules or instructions. They are reminders: spaces you can return to again and again when life feels disorienting or unsteady.
If you’ve ever felt unrooted, in-between, too much, not enough, misunderstood, or homesick for a place you can’t name, you’re not alone.
This is my attempt to navigate building a home within myself. I invite you to explore yours too. We all have a home inside of us. It’s time to start trusting ourselves, looking inward, and tending these inner rooms, decorating them in ways that feel like us.
Home isn’t a place you arrive at. It’s the space you create within yourself.
