I was born and raised in one house. I had 3 different bedrooms in that house over the years; watched half the house get torn apart and remodeled; buried a few pets in the backyard. We had birthday parties and Christmas parties, and maybe even a Halloween party and a New Years party or two. Our house was always the place to go when it rained or was cold and all the kids wanted to play inside. It was home… until I was 15 and got the news that we were moving.
The next house was brand new; small, but comfortable. It was a huge change from the 19th century monstrosity where I was raised. The beige walls of my new bedroom seemed to melt into the similarly colored carpet; it was suffocating. I covered my walls in posters to give it the facade of being home. I do have good memories in that house; but it never quite felt like home.
I turned 18, got a job, and my parents started charging me rent. A couple months before my 19th birthday, a friend offered to let me move in with him. I was paying a little more in rent, but it was a little bit closer to work, so it was worth it. I packed my stuff and moved into the spare room with the barbie pink walls. It was comfortable and my roommate was cool. However, the commute started wearing me down; I started to feel like a guest overstaying their welcome. That room never felt like home.
A few months ago, I started casually looking at places to live closer to work. My boyfriend and I had talked about moving in together, but we weren’t necessarily planning on moving anytime soon. However, one thing led to another and we found an awesome roommate and a brand new apartment within two weeks of each other. We signed the lease three weeks ago.
Maybe it’s walking into an unoccupied space and seeing its potential; maybe it’s moving in with new people who work well together; maybe it’s too soon to really tell…. all I know for sure is that this feels like more than just a roof over my head. After 5 years, I think I’ve finally found a place that feels like home.