Bedrooms — the place where our vulnerabilities live in the same space as our greatest successes.

My bedroom is my haven: the postcards on my wall, the glass baby bird on my dresser, the note under my mirror. My room is an ode to myself — all that I was and all that I am. It cradles me in my most vulnerable moments: sex, sleep and sorrow. It holds life within its four paper-thin walls. It welcomes me home every night like a close friend.

But like in any friendship, there are moments of strife. Its welcome feels warm until I’m tired of myself and, just for once, want to exist without its wandering eyes — without all my past selves staring back at me with longing eyes through the posters on my wall and stuffed animals atop my bed. Still, most of the time, I find its volatile nature endearin

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