Novelists and therapists reflect on the emotional turbulence of returning to childhood homes

A new collection of personal essays explores the complex psychological impact of returning to the homes where one spent childhood. Prominent figures including psychotherapist Julia Samuel, comedian Alexei Sayle, and novelists Esther Freud, Deborah Levy, Guy Gunaratne, and Chloe Aridjis examined how physical spaces retain powerful emotional imprints long after departure.

Samuel, who lived in a Kensington townhouse from age one until 20, recently walked past the property with a close friend but chose not to enter. She described feeling an “unexpected punch in my stomach” as current residents went about their evening, yet she ultimately decided against visiting. “I wanted to preserve the architecture of my memory,” Samuel wrote. “Every room held another version of me.”

She recalled specific details: the black and white tiled hallway, the orange-carpeted staircase, and the top-floor window that was her bedroom. It was there, at a desk her mother had bought her, that she began writing stories as an escape. Samuel noted that while the stone eagles guarding the entrance were gone, a small coal hole remained—a spot where she and her twin brother used to invent games.

From a therapeutic perspective, Samuel argued that adults rarely return to childhood homes simply because they miss the building itself. Instead, she suggested, they are revisiting earlier iterations of themselves. “Children remember the emotional atmosphere of home as much as its architecture,” she explained. She added that these early environments teach individuals whether conflict is survivable and whether they belong, creating a template for future relationships.

For comedian Alexei Sayle, a return to his former home on Valley Road in Anfield, Liverpool, proved far more turbulent. Having moved out at 19 in 1971, Sayle described a recent visit as a “surprisingly gruelling emotional experience.” Standing on the corner near the now-expansive Anfield Stadium, he felt a sense of dislocation rather than nostalgia.

Sayle observed the stark contrast between his memories and the present reality. The local shops that once thrived—chandlers, greengrocers, and delicatessens—had largely disappeared, replaced by shuttered storefronts. He described the neighborhood as suffering from “the twin spectres of economic collapse and incompetent and corrupt redevelopment,” though he found a glimmer of hope in grassroots efforts like the Homebaked Cooperative Bakery, a community-run enterprise that reopened a historic bakery building.

“Seeing my old home after a decade was a surprisingly gruelling emotional experience,” Sayle admitted. He questioned whether he would ever return, fearing the unsettling effects such a visit might have on him again.

Novelist Esther Freud, who counted 16 childhood homes in just two years, identified a converted laundry in East Sussex as the most defining. Lived in between the ages of eight and 14, the property, known as The Old Laundry, overlooked Ashdown Forest. Freud remembered a large fireplace built into a chimney stack originally designed to heat water for the estate’s linen. She recalled the warmth of family life centered around a big kitchen table and meals prepared in an Aga range.

Freud noted that her stepfather, an American who had gained custody of his three daughters after a divorce, had renovated the derelict building himself. Despite the ramshackle nature of their arrival—including a van breaking down on a cattle grid—the home provided a sense of stability during a period of significant change.

The essays collectively highlight how childhood residences serve as anchors for identity. Whether through the preserved memories of a London Victorian, the altered landscape of a Liverpool terrace, or the renovated ruins of an East Sussex laundry, these writers demonstrate that the emotional architecture of home endures well beyond the physical structures.