October 10, 2010


I moved home in May because school ended.  I didn't have a job lined up.  Although, I did have plane tickets and hostel reservations and an international to-do list, thanks to my brother.  (I should tell you more often how much I adore my brother.)  I moved my belongings "back home" in typical "Emily-fashion", which means amid a whirlwind of activities with moving squeezed into a few spare hours.  I didn't spend any time thinking about endings or beginnings.  I technically moved before the end of the semester, skipped my own graduation, attended a couple of weddings, attended a friend's graduation, covered a handful of states in my CRV (including the one I had moved out of a week prior), fielded an interview, picked up my mom's new puppy, gave out a lot of love, and remembered how easy smiles can come. Holy crazybusy fun, Batman.  Then I hopped on a plane at JFK. 

I spent the next two weeks living, breathing, enjoying.  I made promises to myself.  I connected.  To myself.  To the world.

I came home.  To boxes.  To new furniture in my childhood bedroom.  To old memories.  To new realities. 

I didn't really unpack.  I set up a few belongings to make my old home actually feel like home.  I hung up my summer clothes, made up my bed, took inventory of the vast amount of space I had to call my own.  The most... ever?  Then I made plans to move.  To New York.  Brooklyn to be exact.  I applied to jobs in DC.  Talked to my parents about moving back to Maine.  Scrolled through job openings in North Carolina, Mississippi, California. Bookmarked websites for "jobs abroad".  Stepped over boxes.  Divided my belongings into mental lists of "this can stay" and "that can come".  Priced air mattresses, because there was no way I was lugging another bed in ANY move I made. 

I had a potential job opportunity in DC.  Fantastic for my career aspirations.  Terrible for my soul.  I did not expect the whirlwind of upset that would come with the prospect of moving to DC for a fantastic job (although my bank account would disagree, and that did play a role).  I found out that I didn't get the job.  I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  I decided to move home. 

Sure, my boxes had been here since mid-May.  And yes, I had been sleeping here since mid-June.  But I didn't decide to move here until the beginning of September.   I spent the summer waiting for the next move.

This summer I kept my belongings in boxes, but I unpacked everything else.  Dreams. Goals. Aspirations. Hopes. Loves. Fears. Failures. Successes. Values.  You've been a part of that.  Thank you

I'm living at home now.  How is living at home?  It's easy and hard in the very same moments.  It gives me room(s) to dream.  It gives me shelter from student loan debt that feels life-threatening.  (Shelter from: I can't live that life because I have this degree.)  It gives me a place to start my days and my life.  Deciding to live at home gives me a new beginning.  It takes away the excuse of "a transition" and replaces it with "Now, live your life."  I'm still unpacking, but it is everything now.

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