An Introduction:
This story begins in a tiny, arm-width college dorm in San Antonio, TX. It begins in a 4x6ft space, a closet really, that came complete with lofted bed, moldy vents, a single door closet and shoe rack combo, with paper thin walls showcasing every sneeze, laugh, and sound in between. There was more space for sounds than anything else.
I was just a few days past graduating from college. I’d meet David the very next day. Three and a half years later, I’d write my first blog post. Eventually, I’d take a job with a leading, global environmental nonprofit and David would start and grow a business with his dad. We’d move together into our first tiny apartment, then to another, then we’d get married. We’d move to an old 1950’s house in need of desperate repair, but get pregnant and have our first son before any projects could be completed. I’d begin to write about life leaving that place. Then we’d have another child and I would start a YouTube channel about being a mother. But before all of that, there was the beginning. Our beginning in that tiny college dorm.
I was abandoned in my college parking lot, with everything I owned strewn across the sidewalk.
For reasons too personal to discuss here, I’ll only explain that a family member I was supposed to stay with decided not to keep me or my things after all. So I hustled up all the composure I could, called a friend, and moved myself and my things in with her for the summer. I met David at a Starbucks, via that same friend, the next day. When we met, our relationship progressed from infatuation to relationship within two weeks. There was no hesitation. Then I moved my things in with his parents while I left for a job in San Francisco. Our relationship was a long distance one, made richer by our experiences thousands of miles apart. A year later, on a quiet sunny afternoon, we made the decision to live together.
David sent me pictures of an apartment he’d found. He knew just what to highlight. The fireplace and cozy nook off of the kitchen. A porch big enough for a small table and two chairs, perfect for early morning coffee. There weren’t any pictures of the eccentric neighbors we’d hear at all hours of the night.
We exchanged texts about what color we’d paint our accent wall (included with our “renter’s special”) and where we could place an herb garden on the porch. We didn’t yet know about the melancholic man who’d cry and play sad music every night at 2AM. Or the neighbor who would call the fire department on us because we decided to use the public grill located near her unit. We didn’t know about the bathroom light that would break completely, forcing us to use a lamp on the counter when showering. Or that the pantry and refrigerator door couldn’t be opened at the same time due to proximity. When we arrived, we only knew to make it our own.
And so, with me more-or-less fresh off the plane from San Francisco, we purchased a bedroom set for $125 at a garage sale, found two chairs and bookshelf near the dumpster, and I bought a car for $100 off of David’s dad. There was a couch David found at a place called Furniture for a Cause, now long since closed. In the kitchen: a saucepan and two plates.
We were adults, or so we told our parents. We tried to prove it to ourselves too, as we shopped at the local farmer’s market, found work, and adopted two puppies. Because adults have spaces of their own, with comings and goings apart from previous childhood lives. So I unpacked my scarce belongings, dug up from the depths of David’s parent’s garage while I was in SF. As I hung clothes in the closet, I heard the first whimperings of the man in the apartment below.
Making a home is hard work. For some reason, this undertaking is undervalued. “Home” is a way to make sense of things. As we figured out a way to pay rent and student loans, we also spent hours talking about furniture and binge watching House Hunters for ideas on how to make Home. We lay in bed and daydreamed about being debt free, which curtains to hang, and what kitchen gadgets we’d invest in. All the while, the neighbor whimpered.
On lonely afternoons, when David would work until 3AM, I would prowl around Goodwill or thrift shops looking for decor that would make our space feel like home. I busied myself with projects like “how to make bread from scratch” or “how to make more with less” in regards to wardrobe, beauty, decor… everything.
After our first year together, we moved to a newer small apartment. One with less eccentric neighbors, but with a fridge that leaked a mysterious brown fluid for the entirety of our 1.5 years there. I spent precious pennies on a stand mixer. A red Kitchen Aid from Williams Sonoma. It was the most money I’d ever spent all at once on something in my life.
David would bring me fresh flowers as our decor and we’d spend time walking our dogs at the local park. We began building home together. We bought flower pots and filled them with herbs. We hung our clothes in a shared closet in the bathroom. David got his BFA in ceramic arts and I took a job as a bookseller at Barnes & Noble.
There were seemingly endless decisions to make and no clear place to start. We wanted to pay off student debt. But how do you dwindle $50k with a part-time retail paycheck? We wanted to eat organic, but do we buy local or at the grocery store? We had jobs, but what did we want to be when we grew up?
All we had were our wants. We needed to make sense of our needs. Everything we did in that phase of our life together felt imbued with deeper meaning. Are you really going to leave your socks there? Do you really want to go back to school and start over again? Is spending a fortune on produce really going to bring us closer to our goals? And we were learning. We were navigating which habits to cultivate as our own and which to borrow from our upbringing. We were doing everything we wanted to do while simultaneously fretting over what everyone was expecting us to do.
We had fights. I imagined the picture we were painting of our lives, while David worried about which paints to use. Together, we created art. There were always things collected we didn’t really need or money spent that should have been saved. Always arguments that continue to teach us still today.
What we learned from those first two apartments we carried with us into our next home. When we had a baby we started over again. Carefully crafting what a comfortable life would look like for us. Then we took those lessons and carried them with us to our next house and then to the next.
We learned to manage our finances and pay off our student debt in 3 years. We had another baby. We fell back into old patterns and became overwhelmed with stuff. We took long walks at the park and we downsized our life to enjoy more of it. We found our rhythm.
By the time we moved into our current house, David and I had lived in five previous places. Five places full of life lessons on how to live simply and with each other. We’d learned how to pursue our passions in practical ways. How to live frugally to escape and avoid debt. How to be gentle with one another when mistakes were made or plans didn’t pan out.
My hope for this blog is that it does similar work. That in documenting our life, our dreams, our struggles, and our achievements, we can continue growing on this path we’ve forged and inspire many more dreams to form. Life isn’t always simple, but the trappings can be--simple meals, quiet walks, a nice book in the evening. Most importantly, my hope is that this space will serve as a reminder that no matter where you are, you can always go in a different direction.