Time is a funny thing. One day, you’ve just moved into your dream apartment. The next, you wake up and it’s been six years since you’ve dreamt that dream and you’re leaving the place you’ve called home for years now.
Ten years ago, I lay in bed watching Boston Med as I finished up nursing school dreaming of living and working in Boston. Six years ago, I lie in my bed in Seattle picturing my very own Boston apartment with exposed brick walls. Three years ago, I walked into an apartment in Boston’s North End, and immediately knew it was home.
I moved into the apartment in the summer of 2020, and it quickly became a haven for me. The brick walls reminding me of my strong foundation when the world felt unsteady. I can’t tell you how many hours and days and weeks I spent in this place solo, but there was something about it that never left me feeling alone. In this place I belonged, and I was home.
As I packed up, I found remnants of what was lived there. Puzzles, woodworking, and particular cooking supplies (think yeast) all used in the middle of the pandemic. A stock pile of toilet paper hidden under the bed. Permission slips to myself littered throughout my drawers, a truth or dare Jenga piece under the couch. This space held so much joy, so much fear, and so much sorrow. But every day, I woke up feeling grateful and grounded surrounded by those brick walls. As I packed up this space one last time, I was flooded with emotions.
I may not live within those walls anymore, but I can still feel the sensation of my hand against the cool brick in the morning. I can still see the ever changing seasons on the tree outside. I still know, and feel, all that this place brought me. Time is a funny thing, and as I recreate my life once again, it’s strange to know the life I lived in Boston is now so far away. But it’s always with me, wherever I go.
As I move into yet another new space and chapter of my life, my first instinct was to try and recreate my old space. I spent weeks trying to find the same small decorative details of my old home, until I remembered it was not how the space looked, but felt, that mattered. I had to let go of trying to recreate my old haven, in turn letting go of the certainty I crave. Instead, I’m leaning into feeling of home and light I found in Boston to create something new. Instead of picking up items that I think will look good, I grab ones that feel good. I know that although I may not see the whole picture yet, in taking it one step at a time I will build something beautiful. So it goes in putting together this apartment, and putting together this life.
For me, I suppose this is what life is all about: collecting experiences, moments and feelings. Taking what we have learned, and letting it lead the way. Using it to create a life that doesn’t just look good on the outside, but feels good on the inside. Because the thing is, I don’t want a home or a partner or a life that looks good, I want one that feels good. I want a life that feels like love, and light, and truth above all. After all, trying to please those around me, perform, and perfect my life has only ever left me coming up short.
Wherever you are, whatever you do, I hope you hold onto your dreams because I’m here you to tell you they do exist. And I hope you allow yourself to let go of the vision you had, to allow the magic of the unexpected that’s waiting for you. Because in all honestly, despite the visions I have had for my life, it is in the nuanced ways that they have unexpectedly come about that have made them so beautiful.