A Place That Felt Like Home

There’s a certain comfort in familiarity. It’s the warm embrace of a well-worn routine, the reassuring presence of something unchanging in a world that often feels like it’s spinning too fast. For years, a modest hotel in Orlando was that constant for me. It wasn’t luxurious or flashy, but it didn’t need to be. It was ours—a familiar anchor on our frequent trips to this sun-soaked city.

The first time we stayed there, the hotel felt like a hidden gem. Its charm lay in its simplicity—the warm, inviting lobby with its faint lemon-scented cleaner, the friendly staff who greeted us as though we were old friends, and the neatly arranged room that felt like a cozy retreat. Even small touches, like the perfectly folded towels or the fresh flowers near the front desk, added to its allure. It was a place that made us feel welcome and cared for from the moment we walked in. It had charm, a welcoming vibe that seemed to invite you in with open arms. The lobby smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaner, the kind that hints at care without being overwhelming. The staff greeted us with genuine smiles, and the room—while simple—was clean and comfortable, the kind of space that made you feel instantly at ease.

That first visit, years ago, was a blur of excitement and discovery. We unpacked hastily, eager to hit the theme parks and explore the city. But even as we flitted from one adventure to the next, the hotel became our haven, the place we returned to after long days of laughter and sunshine. It wasn’t just a place to sleep; it was part of the experience, woven into the fabric of those trips.

As the years went by, the hotel became a tradition. We didn’t even bother looking at other options when planning our trips to Orlando—it was always the same place. The hotel had become part of our tradition, a dependable choice that we knew would offer a familiar, comforting experience. Its proximity to the attractions, the ease of navigating the area, and the consistent service made it an easy decision every time. Why take a gamble when we already had a place that felt like home? There was something comforting about the routine of it all. We knew what to expect, and that predictability became part of the joy.

But life, as it so often does, had other plans.

The Golden Days

I still remember the first time I noticed the change. It was subtle, almost imperceptible. The hotel had announced a renovation, a complete overhaul to modernize the facilities and give the place a fresh look. At the time, I was thrilled. I imagined sleek new furniture, upgraded amenities, and a renewed sense of pride in the place we had come to love so much.

When we arrived for our first post-renovation stay, the exterior looked promising. Fresh paint gleamed in the Florida sun, and the doors had been replaced with new, more sturdy ones. The lobby, too, had received a facelift, with new furniture and updated decor that leaned toward minimalism. It was different, but I told myself it was progress.

The room, however, told a different story.

It wasn’t terrible, not by any stretch. But it wasn’t the same, either. The charm, the warmth that had made the hotel feel so special, seemed to have been lost in the renovation.

The Signs of Decline

Over the next year or so, the hotel’s downward spiral became impossible to ignore. What started as small inconveniences—a sticky door handle here, a stained carpet there—soon escalated into full-blown problems. On one visit, the room reeked of mildew, the smell so strong it clung to our clothes long after we’d left. On another, the front desk seemed perpetually understaffed, with long lines of frustrated guests stretching across the lobby.

The final straw came during our most recent stay.

We’d arrived exhausted from the drive and eager to collapse into bed. But as soon as we opened the door to our room, a pungent, unmistakable odor hit us. It was the smell of cat urine, sharp and sour, seeping from one of the beds.

I wish I could say that was the worst of it, but the horrors of that stay extended far beyond an unfortunate odor. The next morning, we stepped outside to find the yard littered with empty whiskey bottles and crumpled plastic bags that bore the telltale residue of methamphetamine. A gunshot rang out in that night, a jarring reminder that the world outside our door was not the same one we’d once known. The sharp, echoing crack was unlike anything I had ever associated with this place, shattering any lingering illusion of safety. The shot sent a chill down my spine, leaving me wide awake and hyper-aware of every sound around me. What had once been a peaceful haven now felt like a place where danger lurked just beyond the shadows, and that realization left an indelible mark on our experience.

And then, there were the dogs. Many of them belonged to the long-term guests who seemed to have taken over much of the hotel. Their presence was inescapable, from the barking that echoed through the night to the occasional scuffles that broke out between them. Even the room next door housed one or more dogs, their muffled growls, barks and movements audible through the thin walls.

I’d noticed them as we pulled into the parking lot—a pack of scruffy, forlorn-looking animals lingering near the edge of the property. At first, I felt a pang of sympathy for them, imagining they might be strays looking for food or warmth. But as the sun dipped below the horizon and the air filled with the thick humidity of a Florida evening, their barking began.

It wasn’t just a bark here or there. It was relentless, a cacophony of yelps, growls, and howls that seemed to echo endlessly through the night. Every time I drifted close to sleep, the sharp, frantic barking would jolt me awake, my heart racing as if it were some primal alarm. I lay there in the darkness, the muffled snores of other guests barely audible over the chaos outside.

As if that weren’t enough, the building next door decided to join the party. From the moment the sun dipped below the horizon, loud music began to thrum from the neighboring property. It wasn’t just music—it was a physical force, a relentless pounding bass that seemed to vibrate through the walls and floors, settling in my chest like a second heartbeat. The relentless rhythm made it impossible to relax, let alone sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, the vibrations seemed to intensify, rattling both the walls and my nerves. It turned what should have been a quiet refuge into a space that felt oppressive and uninviting, heightening my frustration and leaving me wide awake, counting down the hours until dawn. The playlist was as erratic as the volume, shifting from booming reggaeton tracks to high-energy EDM and back again without rhyme or reason. This unpredictability added to my frustration, making it impossible to adjust or find even a brief moment of peace. Each track seemed to mock any attempt to settle in, the inconsistency a constant reminder that the night was out of my control, amplifying the sense of helplessness that had already set in. By midnight, it was clear the music wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

The combination of barking dogs, thudding bass, and distant gunshots created a nighttime soundscape that felt more suited to a thriller movie than a family-friendly hotel stay. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, willing the night to end and knowing, deep down, that this would be our last stay at this place.

A Turning Point

The next morning, I felt like a shell of myself. My head throbbed from the lack of sleep, and my body ached as if I’d run a marathon instead of lying in bed all night. Even the coffee I grabbed from the nearby convenience store couldn’t shake the fog that had settled over me. The fatigue followed me like a shadow, making every step feel heavier and every task seem insurmountable. Conversations were curt, tinged with the sharp edges of exhaustion, and my patience wore thin over the smallest inconveniences. By the time the afternoon rolled around, the lack of sleep had drained the joy from our plans, leaving me longing for the day to end before it had truly begun.

As we drove away from Stayable Kissimmee West, the hotel shrinking in the rearview mirror, I felt a mix of emotions. There was relief, of course, at finally escaping the chaos of the night. But there was also a lingering sadness, a sense of mourning for the place it used to be.

We knew we wouldn’t be back. And yet, part of me clung to the hope that someday, someone would come along and restore it to its former glory. Maybe then, another family could make the kind of memories here that we once did.

Moving Forward

Now, as we plan our next trip to Orlando, we’re looking for a new place to stay. It’s not an easy task—finding a hotel that feels like home takes time and trust. But I’m hopeful. Orlando is a city of possibilities, and I’m optimistic that we’ll find somewhere that can become the backdrop for new memories. We’re looking for a place that prioritizes comfort and quiet—somewhere with clean, inviting rooms and amenities that make you feel valued as a guest. A good location, close enough to the attractions yet tucked away from the noise, would be ideal. Most importantly, we want a hotel that feels like a sanctuary, a place where we can truly unwind after a busy day exploring the magic of Orlando.

Leaving Stayable Kissimmee West wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the right one. This place had been more than just a hotel—it was a repository of cherished memories, a backdrop to countless moments of joy and discovery. But as I reflected on its decline, I realized that clinging to the past wasn’t doing those memories justice. Deciding to leave felt like saying goodbye to an old friend who had changed beyond recognition, a bittersweet choice that was necessary to preserve the good times in their unspoiled form. Sometimes, moving on is the only way to hold on to the good memories, untainted by the disappointments that came after.

Goodbye, old friend. Thank you for the laughter, the joy, and the comfort you once brought us. You were more than just a place to stay—you were part of our story, a constant in our travels that offered more than convenience. From the excitement of first arrivals to the bittersweet packing on our last mornings, you shaped our trips in ways we will never forget. The memories we made within your walls will always hold a special place in our hearts, even as we move forward. We’ll always remember you as you were, not as you’ve become.