The room I long for

Whenever I am asked what I want five or 10 years from now, or how I envision the life I desire, I always respond that I want to be financially independent and do what I want. But in my mind, it’s a very simple wish—one I think others might find amusing or even pathetic.

I just want to have my own room.

Growing up, I didn’t really have the privilege of having my own room. Even at 21, I still share a room with my mother at home. Since our house is designed for just the four of us, I understand why I’ve never had the opportunity to have my own space. Every time I visit a friend’s house, I get to see a part of their personality through how they design or organize their room. It serves as a mirror of their everyday interests and desires. It reveals a part of them that only they can fully feel and understand.

In my dorm in Los Baños, I live harmoniously with my roommates in a shared room. It’s not that I complain about sharing small things with them—I just feel like I would be a different person if I had my own room back then and now. It’s as if I know how I’d be different if I had one.

If I were in another universe and had my own room at such a young age, I’d definitely be a bookworm surrounded by random books. As cringeworthy as it may sound, I’d be the person rolling and moving hysterically in bed just in case my crush said something cheesy or funny. I’d be bed rotting 10 times worse than now or be a freak in isolation whenever circumstances get rough.

I’ve always imagined how personalized my room would be. I would decorate it to match my personal aesthetics. I envision it always being neat and organized to my liking. I’d put glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling. There would be a bulletin board where I could pin my favorite photos from errands. I’d add sticky notes to remind me of daily activities I often overlook. Daily affirmations and goals would be displayed. I’d want a whiteboard for scribbling, writing, or mapping concepts based on what I’ve read. There would also be a bookshelf, filled with numerous books organized by themes of fiction and non-fiction.

I am always thankful, despite not having achieved my own hypothetical self, for having a room.

If I had a room, I wouldn’t dream. And if I had no such dream, I wouldn’t realize how much a simple dream such as this could give me the drive to study hard and run toward my purpose.

Even at the expense of losing my personal space, I still find solace in who I am now. I continue to buy books despite not having a bookshelf, write my thoughts in a journal, and go to cafes to enjoy the coziness of a personal workspace. If I had a room now, I wouldn’t find happiness in the things I enjoy today.

It is comforting to look forward to the idea of having a personal room and to work hard for it—a worthwhile goal. It teaches me to find joy in temporarily settling with what I have, as someone born into a lower-middle-class family.

These things I long for share a part of me that I want to keep—a space where I get to be my own person. A space where I feel responsible for keeping it clean, a space that could serve as my own personal altar, and a space where I can just lie down on my bed, think random thoughts, or talk to myself whenever I feel like it.

In some sense, it is safe to assume—or at least comforting to believe—that having a personal space where I can be transparent, feel rested, and safe is not merely a desire confined to myself. I believe this is a wish I share with others who are not privileged enough to find solitude in a house without a personal room. I realize that this yearning of mine is not alone.

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I learned to be so accustomed to the constant overlap of lives that, when I step into the outside world, I sometimes find myself instinctively shrinking, making room for everyone else’s needs before I even recognize my own.

Living without a door of my own not only deprived me of my physical space but also blurred my emotional and social boundaries to the point where I forgot to build walls around my own energy.

Without this kind of dream, I would not realize how having a personal room is a luxury that people like me cannot experience. Having a personal space to breathe has become a luxury. It is an exhausting way to navigate the world, but it has taught me a crucial reality: the ability to be silent in one’s own presence is a privilege.

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John Paul Parale, 21, is a sociology student at the University of the Philippines Los Baños. He loves to write when he is emotionally daunted and overwhelmed.