Finding a Home

It was the summer of 2002, and I couldn’t wait to move out of my parents’ home. It was stifling, and I wanted change. My parents’ house was full of things — things they could never throw away. Hundreds, no thousands, of un-categorized photos, old knick-knacks, giveaways, clothes that should have been sent to Goodwill years previous, old boxes and junk from our elementary school days. As I started packing up things from my small, cramped, but lovingly decorated room, I realized I didn’t have much of my own. And I never really needed much more.

The fall of 2002, I moved for the very first time. For the first time in my small existence, I was out from under my parents’ roof. I was free.

And I didn’t have much to bring along with me. Which was fine, because I could finally breathe. I could be my own person.

For four years, I lived in the same atmosphere, with three different roommates, all completely different and unique in their own lovable ways. All of my meals were taken care of. My clothes were all in one spot, plus, I had the closets of at least 10 other girls who were more than willing and happy to share if I felt like I needed more. I didn’t have to worry about money, and I made little more than $1000 a year through work study (my first job). Plus, I didn’t have to worry about “family issues,” as they were at least an hour away. For these things, I was grateful, but I really took them for granted.

In 2006, I left that cozy little world, and set out for new things — mostly because I had to. But it was good being free, right?

I tried moving back to my parents’ house for a couple of months, but I found that I still wanted some sort of freedom. I didn’t want my sister’s husband telling me that I didn’t have a life because, even after college, I preferred to sit at home on a Friday night with a good book and a nice cup of something. Maybe even a cookie or two. I didn’t want to be home by midnight or call home when I wanted to go out with the occasional friend.

I moved out after only a few months back, and I moved in with a friend closer to where I wanted to be. Closer to him.

After a few months of aimless wandering, at least 5 jobs, and a startling wake-up call, I decided that I wanted grad school. That I loved learning.

But I still didn’t have a place to call my own — a home.

I moved in with the boyfriend’s parents. Whoa. Back up there.

After years and years of comfortable living situations (simply because I knew where I was going), I moved in with the people who would take me. And believe me, there weren’t many that weren’t my parents.

I kept 2 of my jobs, went back to school, and lived with who would become my second set of parents. Two people (2 younger people, and 12 cats) who are two of the most generous people I have encountered to date. I was there for over a year, and I don’t regret my decision one bit.

I am now married, in a rental house near where my husband goes to school and my job, and I’ve never felt more at home. It’s not feeling comfortable with your finances. It’s not where your clothes are or if you can wake up in the morning and have a good breakfast. It’s not that the roof leaks or you found a hole in the bathroom ceiling. It’s not where you put your stuff or if you have to throw your things away and keep his.

It’s sad that it’s taken me this long to finally realize that it’s not where you are or where your stuff is. It’s who you’re with. And that’s all that should matter.

My husband and my dog are my home.

And I’m finally starting to understand.