crwrubcproject2024

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Emerson Mese Gilbert: Home isn't a Place its a Person - Home Sweet Home

It’s funny how one person can make everything feel right. For me, that person has always been Kaya. 

I met her before kindergarten, when I was only 2 years old. I was in my first ballet class, the one I mentioned earlier. I was so young and barely remember anything from that time, but I do know that me and Kaya just gravitated towards each other. We were so young we barely knew our own names, but we did know that we wanted to be friends. We introduced each other to each other's parents and started wanting to hang out everyday.

From that moment, we were inseparable.

Kaya was everything I wasn’t—bold, fearless, and endlessly curious. She was the first to climb trees, dive into cold water, or raise her hand in class. She was also always the smartest person in every room she was in. But she never made me feel small for being quieter, for taking my time to figure things out. Instead, she made space for me in her world, pulling me along with her like I belonged there all along. 

Over the years, she became my constant. When my parents fought, and the house felt heavy with silence, she’d call and say, “Come over,” like it was the most natural thing in the world. We’d sit on her bedroom floor, eating popcorn and watching New Girl, and somehow, everything would feel lighter.

When I struggled with self-doubt, Kaya was my mirror, reflecting back the best parts of me I couldn’t see on my own. “You’re stronger than you think,” she’d say, her voice steady and sure, as if she knew something I didn’t. And maybe she did. 

When we went into middle school Kaya became a track star. She was the fastest in our class and would always excel at PE. I was always one of the slowest in our class. When we would run the mile Kaya would always run her laps running faster then all the boys in our class, and then run extra laps with me so we would finish at the same time. And long after she quit ballet she would still come to every single one of my recitals and always congratulate me with the biggest smile and flowers in hand. 

Since we were in kindergarten Kaya and I had always gone to the same school. Elementary school we were inseparable, and same in middle school. So when my parents decided that I was going to move to a private school for highschool I was so sad but more scared to do life without Kaya because I never had before. She reassured me that no matter what we would always be best friends, and even now going to college in different countries I know she was right. 

Now, years later, I still think about that. I think about all the ways she made me feel safe and at ease. Home isn’t just a place; it’s a feeling. And for me, that feeling is Kaya - her laughter, her kindness, and the way she’s always made me feel like I belong, no matter where I am.

If you’re lucky, you find one person who feels like that. For me, it’s always been her. My best friend. My home.

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Emerson Mese Gilbert: My Second Home - Home Sweet Home

The moment I step inside the studio, the world outside seems to disappear. The sound of pointe shoes against the floor and the soft hum of classical piano music drifts from the corner speakers. The walls, lined with mirrors, reflect not just bodies in motion but determination, and a sense of belonging. This place isn’t just where I come to dance but it’s where I come to breathe, to feel alive.

I can’t remember exactly the first time I walked through the studio doors. I was only 2 wearing a yellow tutu. I was one of 10 other girls whose moms had all signed them up for ballet class. I was small, shy, and unsure, but the studio welcomed me anyway. Almost every little girl says she has done ballet, but I stuck with it until I graduated highschool. 

In the beginning, I was all wobbly steps and clumsy turns, my reflection a blur of mismatched movements. But as the weeks turned into months, something shifted. The studio started to feel familiar. My barre place became a place of stability, the familiarity of the studio became my second home. The mirrors, once intimidating, became my teachers, showing me where I needed to grow.

Over the years, the studio has been my constant. It’s where I’ve celebrated my triumphs, like finally nailing a double pirouette, getting on pointe or mastering a particularly tricky combination. But it’s also where I’ve faced my struggles. I’ve cried on this floor after spraining my ankle or getting injured so many times I couldn’t even count. I’ve stared at my reflection on bad days, frustrated with how my body looked or when it  wouldn’t cooperate. Through it all, the studio has held me, steady and unyielding, reminding me that growth comes from persistence.

It’s not just the space itself that feels like home—it’s the people. My dance friends, with their shared laughs, whispered encouragement, and trauma bound for when we would spend countless hours in rehearsals, have become my second family. We’ve celebrated together, comforted one another, and learned how to move as one. 

Whenever I feel lost, either in dance or in life, I think about everything I’ve learned whether it be on purpose or on accident. And then I think about this place, the studio, where I’ve learned more than pliés and arabesques. I’ve learned patience, resilience, and how to find beauty even in imperfection.

To some, it might just look like a room with mirrors and wooden floors. But to me, it’s a sanctuary. It’s where I’ve found a family that I wasn’t even expecting. It’s also where I’ve grown up, where I’ve laughed, cried, and discovered pieces of myself I didn’t know existed.  The studio isn’t just where I dance. It’s where I’m home.

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Emerson Mese Gilbert: The Ocean is my Home - Home Sweet Home

Growing up in San Diego life never felt real. Every day, the sky would transform into a masterpiece, splashed with bright oranges, soft pinks, and deep purples. My mom called it “magic hour,” and I believed her. I used to sit in my backyard and watch the colors stretch across the horizon. I’d wonder if someone on the other side of the ocean could see the same streaks of light and if they were also sitting there, marveling at the view.

Most of my days were spent outdoors, where life seemed like magic. I remember the soft crunch of sand beneath my feet and the way the ocean breeze tangled my hair, carrying with it the faint scent of salt and sunscreen. The beach became my second home. I was always there. I’d wade into the water until the waves lapped at my knees, searching for smooth pieces of sea glass or tiny shells. I would surf the waves until the sky and the sea blended together. When I got tired, I’d sit in the warm sand and build castles, my fingers shaping towers, even though I knew the tide would eventually sweep them away. Somehow, I never minded.

The ocean had a way of grounding me. Its vastness was comforting, like a reminder that no matter how big my problems felt, they were small in the grand scheme of things. I’d lie back in the sand and stare up at the sky, letting the rhythm of the waves quiet my thoughts. It felt like the ocean knew all my secrets but never asked for anything in return.

As I get older, my world starts to feel bigger, too. I decided to go to Vancouver for college. I now spend weekends exploring the city with my friends, hopping on buses or bikes to discover new neighborhoods. I wander through farmers’ markets filled with the smell of fresh bread and flowers, or sit on café patios drinking coffee, the rain pouring down all around me. I loved how alive the city felt—the hum of conversations, the distant sound of a street performer’s guitar, and the constant energy buzzing through every corner.

But no matter how far I roam, I always find my mind wandering back to the water. The beach was my anchor, the one place that never changed no matter how much I did. I’d sit there at sunset, watching the sky shift through its colors, the waves rolling in steady and calm. It was my way of sorting through my thoughts, of letting go of the things that didn’t matter. The ocean seemed to know how to carry them away for me.

Now that I’m older, I realize how much this place shaped me. San Diego wasn’t just where I grew up—it was where I learned to see the beauty in small things, to feel connected to the world around me, and to find peace even in life’s chaos. The sunsets, the ocean, the feeling of warm sand beneath my feet—they became part of who I am.

Even now, when I see a sunset, I can’t help but pause and remember those quiet moments by the water. The colors still feel like home, no matter where I am.