I moved into my apartment in August 2012. I went from living with my family to living alone. I didn't know a soul here. When I told people I was going to live alone, a lot of people warned me that I might be sad or scared-- after all, I was a commuter during undergrad, meaning I went from living with 5 loud and ever-present people to living completely independently without any kind of roommate experience. Despite these warnings, however, I found that I loved living alone; in fact, I relished in it. Living in a new place was hard, but not the living alone part.; in fact, I loved the quiet, the privacy, and the idea of knowing that a space was only "mine." I loved declaring and establishing a sense of "home" for myself that I created and maintained all by myself.
It was a beautiful space, too. You hear horror stories about people's first apartments, and I have to say that mine wasn't the standard scary narrative. I was very lucky; my apartment was in a safe area, in a quiet building with friendly neighbors and a nice landlord. It had large beautiful windows that over looked trees and a local park, it was in walking distance of my university, stores and restaurants ranging from Thai to sushi, it had lots of light, lots of space, and possessed a simple kind of charm. Nothing broke--not even once. It was an expensive area and the complex wasn't cheap, but it was worth the money.
A part from these practical things, my apartment holds sentimental value because it is the place where I truly grew up. That sounds cliche, but it's true. It's the space where I processed some deep loss and deep happiness, where I experienced intense loneliness but also learned the true value of being alone, received great news and also heart-breaking phone calls, where I did the intense work to gain my MA degree, where I planned my first college-lessons as a TA, where I threw my first dinner party, saw dreams actualized, where I took care of myself when I was sick, where I discovered the joy of inviting friends (both old and new) into a space that was completely "mine," where I cooked, did laundry, paid my bills, managed my finances, did dishes, dusted, vacuumed, learned how to clean a stove and put together a TV, decorated the walls, planned my future, unpacked groceries, baked treats for my grad school friends, got ready for dates, coped with a depression, watched President Obama win re-election, did Yoga on the living room floor. And, most importantly, I did all of these things all by myself. There was no roommate or person down the hall to talk to me, bhelp me, or even distract me. It was just me. These moments taught me independence and strength-- traits I already possessed but that came into full bloom when living alone. (A friend and mentor of mine actually joked, "Some people can't be that independent. You do alone very well. Maybe too well.")
I am moving back home with my family during the time before starting a Phd program. I love my home and there are many beautiful things and people waiting for me there. I will, however, nonetheless miss my little apartment and all of what it represented. There will never be another 504, but I like to think that I carry it--and all of what I learned while in it--wherever I go. The interesting thing about places is that we may dwell in them for short time but they often dwell in us for far longer. I am proud to have that in me, and I am especially proud to say that I did (as the title of this blog suggests) find a new place, and it was very "right." Thank you, 504. Thank you.
