I want to write about my house.
I want to write about how I just moved into a home with dark wood floors and granite counters and a spiral staircase and windows that push open onto my roof so I can sit there at sunset. I want to write about the way my twinkly lights hang from the perfect little bed my best friends found and put into my room for me before I even got into the state. I want to write and tell you about all of the wonderful people who came together to make this move possible. About the endless things, unimaginable things, that people have done for me to get me into this tiny dream home. From months of rent to pillows and comforters, I was handed a fantasy. I want to tell you how grateful I am and how humbled this has made me because I know for a fact I am so undeserving of the life I get to live.
But I cant. For right now, I cant.
Because I haven’t slept in days because my room reminds me of loneliness and reality. I cant, because I’m ashamed that God has given me so much, yet after a week of living here today was the first time I fell asleep in my bed and didn’t feel resentment.
I imagined the first time I ever wrote about my very first apartment in New York City that shares the walls with some of my best friends , it would be a tremendous occasion. The first post, the first pictures, the first announcement. I thought it was going to be full of new beginnings and excitement and the smell of paint.
But I promised you, and myself, that the me I portrayed on the internet would be the me I truly am. And the me I truly am, for now, is tired.
Because while I am truly so thankful, and full of uncontainable excitement, I am aware. I am aware that a dream of mine just came true.
And I am now aware of how much hurt and loss you have to face to have dreams happen.
You know how sometimes when you’re running, you can’t feel the pain your muscles are in until you stop to take a breath? That’s sort of how this feels. Like I worked, and prayed, and hustled, and begged, and borrowed to get to where I am right now – this very moment. And now I’m here. And the struggles may not be over but my struggles are my own now. They’re not to get from point A to B, but to get me to my next dream.
I feel like God is sitting on my bed with me saying, “I did it. You wanted it, I gave it.” And I’m sitting there, with a blank face looking back at him saying, “Can I just lay down for a little while?”
Because I think that’s what they don’t tell us about dreams and wishes coming true.
It takes a lot of hurt, a lot of loss, to get there. And so when you get there, instead of celebrating, you just want some time to mourn.
There are so many people I lost, so many people I had to leave and who left me, because I knew this is where I was meant to be. I’m missing my family’s lives. I’m missing people who didn’t want to let me go but knew they had to. I’m missing friends I couldn’t keep because we weren’t on the same paths, I’m missing someone I thought I was in love with. I sacrificed these things to get here.
And I don’t want anyone to think, I don’t want my mom or my siblings or my God to think, that I am not bafflingly ecstatic or grateful. Because I am, I am.
But I think I just need a few seconds to gather myself on these dark wood floors and spiral staircase and windows that push open onto my roof so I can sit there at sunset.
Because I think for the first time it’s hitting me what I have had to lose to gain this.
I finally stopped running. And my body aches.
And I think God would be okay if I took a few moments to put my hands above my head and just breathe for second.
Today I woke up from a nap around 3pm. I only slept for an hour, but I woke up in this small little sunspot on the corner of my pillows and sheet. I opened my eyes to the warmth that God sent through my window. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t wake up sad.
Because of how I’ve been feeling, I was afraid that this house wouldn’t feel like my home, but I realized that home is the place you feel safe to grieve. And it’s the place you feel allowed to heal.
For the past 5 days I have grieved within these walls. And today at 2:45pm, on 10 inches of sheet, a part of me healed.
I thought when I announced that I got my first apartment it would be confetti and glitter.
I also thought I left home 3 years ago when I first moved to New York. But I was wrong about both. I found out this week, I didn’t. Because my home was still my house…my friends…my town.
So rather than posting some pictures of my first house key, or me in my first doorway with a fake smile and planned outfit, I come to you honestly, and humbly, and simply, and with bashful guilt to tell you,
I moved to a new home.