From Sanctuary to Memory: Reclaiming Space, Love, and Life

Reclaiming Our Oasis: A Room, a Chair, and a Step Toward Myself

The Oasis That Became Everything

When we first bought our house, I called our large bedroom above the garage ‘our oasis.’ It was a quiet refuge, a place where my husband and I could breathe, retreat, and simply be together, away from the demands of life that waited just beyond the door.

Over the years, life filled it with so much more, laughter, mess, care, and love, shaping it in ways I could not yet fully understand. What began as a sanctuary would eventually carry the weight of grief, caregiving, and the quiet return to myself.

A baby, work, daily messes, play, and love turned it into a multifunctional space. My son slept there as a baby, and for a long time, the room became his too. I told myself it made mornings easier, allowed him more time with his dad, especially during his dad’s illness, and kept our home running smoothly. Looking back, it was love, practicality, and survival all at once.

A Room That Witnessed Life

This room carries weight in ways I could never have anticipated. It was where my husband spent much of his time when he was ill, especially when his energy was low. It was where we held each other through difficult moments, celebrated his last birthday, and watched TV together as a family.

My son and his dad built massive Star Wars Lego structures on the small table I arranged. They drew together, read together, competed in drawing challenges according to my son’s rules. My then-teenage stepdaughter would often sit on the floor next to the sofa, watching veterinary shows or episodes of Impractical Jokers that amused her dad.

This is also where my son gave his daddy his last kiss one morning before school, not knowing that he would return home to find his beloved papa had passed away. Memory, grief, and love are all layered in this room. It is filled with laughter and loss, tenderness and absence.

The Years of Survival

After my husband’s death, my son continued to sleep in our room. I did not have the energy to help him transition back to his own room. He was having nightmares, and I didn’t think it fair to change this on him all at once.

The room became a space of survival, of protection, care, and holding space for the needs of those I loved most. Over the years, my own energy was consumed by work, family, and caregiving. Big projects, even small ones, felt impossible. This room, in many ways, reflected that constraint.

Beginning to Reclaim

Yesterday, I finally began to reclaim the room. I folded up the old fold-out bed, organized piles of papers and toys, vacuumed, and set up a lamp I had bought over a year ago, a “tree lamp” with shelves and adjustable light. On one of its branches, I placed a journal and pen my son gave me for Christmas.

It is a small gesture, yet it feels monumental. I know some might wonder: Why make such a big deal about renovating a room?

For me, this is not just furniture. My energy and health restrictions have limited these types of projects and so I have typically focused on other parts of the house, such as the kids’ rooms. I also needed to be emotionally ready. I have spent years concentrating on work and caring for others. This is one of my first steps in taking care of myself, a deliberate act of self-kindness.

This isn’t just a personal realisation; there is also something symbolic about this process. Research shows that intentional, small rituals, even acts as simple as arranging a room or creating a personal nook, can reinforce a sense of agency, mark life transitions, and support emotional resilience (Kaplan, 1995; Keltner & Haidt, 2003). In reclaiming my oasis, I am creating a ritual of self-care, acknowledging past care while giving space to my own needs.

Honouring the Past While Choosing the Present

This room used to be shaped around survival and care under constraint. Now, it is being shaped around choice, rest, reflection, and affection.

That is not forgetting the past but rather completing its arc. The oasis didn’t disappear; it went underground. It sustained life when conditions were harsh. Now it is resurfacing, altered but still capable of restoration.

I did not lose my room, my oasis. I loaned it to love. That distinction is comforting and grounding.

The Chair, the Lamp, and a New Chapter

The chair I will place in the room, chosen for comfort, for lounging, for reading, and for quiet moments shared with my son, will sit near the tree lamp. Together, they are not a rupture from the past but a continuation of care.

Soon, the chair will be a place where I am held, an acknowledgment that caregiving has shifted direction. The lamp illuminates the space in gentle, adjustable light. The journal waits to hold my thoughts.

Even as I reclaim this space, I honour its history: the nights of care, the mornings of connection, the moments of grief, the small joys of family togetherness. Memory lives in function, not objects. Threads of continuity, a journal, a pen, a chair that invites closeness, keep the past alive without freezing it in time.

This is a space that remembers, that witnesses, that holds. And now, slowly, it breathes again, not just as a room, but as a sanctuary for living, for loving, for reflection, and for the quiet, restorative moments that sustain life. In reclaiming it, I too am finding breath again, feeling the room’s return mirrored in my own ability to pause, rest, and be fully present, as if the oasis itself has reawakened within me.

As I reclaim it, I look forward to moments shared with my son here, quietly, as this room holds the past and opens gently toward the future.

-- Anne TM Konkle

References

Kaplan S. The Restorative Benefits of Nature: Toward an Integrative Framework. Journal of Environmental Psychology, 1995, 15(3): 169–182. https://doi.org/10.1016/0272-4944(95)90001-2.

Keltner D, Haidt J. Approaching awe, a moral, spiritual, and aesthetic emotion. Cognition & Emotion. 2003 Mar;17(2): 297-314. doi: 10.1080/02699930302297.