I lived in this trailer from the time I was born until I was twelve.
My mom, dad, younger brother, our cat, and a parakeet all lived there with me. We may have lived in a trailer park, but I never thought of it as something lesser. The property was cared for then. The neighbors knew each other. They were friends. It felt safe, familiar, and connected in a way that I understand differently now.
For most of my childhood, my mom, my brother, and I shared one bedroom and slept in bunk beds. My dad slept on the couch. When I was ten, I moved into the spare room and had a bedroom of my own for the first time.
Because I was homeschooled, so much of my life happened inside those walls. I woke up, did schoolwork, and spent the rest of my time making things. I drew, wrote, sang, danced, and created constantly.
I was born with joint hypermobility, which meant sports were never really available to me in the way they were for other children. My parents did not make me feel like that meant I was incapable. They encouraged what I could do. They supported my creativity and pushed me toward art.
Looking back, I think that mattered more than any of us realized.
The first place I photographed when I returned was the back of the trailer. From there, I could see into the bedroom where my mom, brother, and I had slept together.
The carpet was still there.
That was the first thing I recognized.
The light was falling into the room in a way that made it feel almost familiar, even though everything around it had changed. The trailer was in terrible condition. It had been abandoned, neglected, and left open to time and weather. Seeing it that way was disturbing.
But places change when no one is caring for them. That does not erase what happened there before.
The greenery had grown around the structure and begun entering it. Light moved through broken and dirty windows. The outside world reflected across the dark interior. There were moments when the whole place looked unexpectedly beautiful.
Not beautiful because it had been destroyed.
Beautiful because it was still holding something.
The rooms were damaged, but I still understood them. I knew where things used to be. I knew how the hallway connected one part of our life to another. I remembered the floor beneath my feet. I remembered where we slept and where I spent hours making things.
At the end of the hallway was a window that looked toward the school-bus stop.
Every morning, I watched the other children gather there. They would form a line, climb onto the bus, and leave. I was jealous of them. I wanted to carry a backpack, stand outside, and go to school like everyone else.
At that age, the window felt like a view into a life I was not part of.
Years later, I returned and looked through it again.
My parents now live only five minutes away, so I pass the trailer often. I had watched it change from the road and knew it would eventually disappear. I wanted to photograph it before there was nothing left to return to.
I thought I was documenting my childhood home.
I think I was also documenting the place where I first learned to pay attention.
I learned there that ordinary rooms could hold entire lives. I learned to notice what people kept, how light moved across a wall, and how much meaning could remain inside objects that looked insignificant to everyone else.
I learned to create because creating was something my body allowed me to do.
The trailer is no longer the place I remember.
But the carpet was still there.
The light still entered the room.
And I still knew exactly where I was.