Finally Home

This past summer, we bought a house.

It isn't flashy, or big. It wasn't "turn key," or new, or updated. It needed, and needs, a lot of work. Most people would probably look at it and shrug, and say "yep, that's a house." It's pretty much nobody's definition of a dream house.

Except mine, because it's MY HOUSE, and I have been waiting so long to go home.

Before we were married with two kids, my husband and I bought a lovely little condo, perfect for just the two of us. We bought it largely because I pushed very, very hard to do so (Dan has a much more pragmatic head on his shoulders.) That was back in 2004. When the real estate market crashed and our little condo lost tens of thousands of dollars in value, we were desperately underwater, with no way of being able to move for a long time - and now we had two small children, too. We'd originally planned to stay in the condo for about five years. When we finally sold it last year we had been there almost eleven years.

So much happened in that time. We got married. We had two babies. I quit my job. I never hated that condo (...well, maybe sometimes I did) but I hated knowing that it wasn't where we were meant to be long term. I wanted to feel settled, to feel at peace. I wanted to walk through a door and feel like it led to a place my family could call home for many years.

It was a long road to get to this place, a road paved with frustration, guilt, and uncertainty. I had to give up a lot of the pictures in my head of the way things were "supposed" to be. I had to learn to listen to my husband and not just bulldoze over him when he said things I didn't want to hear. I had to stop trying to keep up with the Joneses and start making difficult decisions about what was really a priority for our little family. When it comes right down to it, we are a single income family living in one of the most expensive cities in our state. Reality sets in at some point.

I also had to forgive myself for past mistakes, the what ifs and the woulda coulda shouldas. What if we hadn't bought the condo? What if I hadn't quit my job? What if we'd been able to take advantage of the burst real estate bubble instead of being victims of it? So many alternate scenarios played out in my head in so many ways... and sometimes it was paralyzing.

The decision to move forward, to bite the bullet and sell, to risk a house hunt in a hot market that we could barely afford -  even that (perhaps ESPECIALLY that) was terrifying. There were many, many days when I worried I was leading us right over a cliff.

As they like to say these days - adulting is hard.

A lot of people, when they talk about closing on a home, say they feel like they are signing their lives away. And it's true that there is something unnerving at best about the sheer volume of paperwork and the money involved. But when we walked out of that title company office with the keys to our home in our hands, I had never felt more free in my life. The tension that had been a constant undercurrent of my existence, that came first from knowing we were not where we needed to be and then from the stress of trying to find and purchase the right home, was completely gone. The weight of that negativity had colored nearly every aspect of my life for more than five years. It suddenly felt like I was walking on air.

That's not to say that life is now stress free, not by any stretch of the imagination. But the peace that comes with loving my home and knowing that it's more than adequate for my family's needs is incredibly freeing for me. I feel like my whole baseline stress level has completely shifted, and for the better. I'm so grateful for our families who stood by us and supported us, for our friends who were excited for us and helped us, and for our talented, professional, and kind realtor who patiently ushered us through the whole exhausting process.

People buy and sell houses every day. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't seem particularly remarkable. It has been six months since we closed, and five months since we moved in. Every day, no matter what other nonsense we've had to deal with, Dan and I still stop and look at each other and grin stupidly and squeal something like "our house!" I don't see us stopping any time soon.

And that kind of joy is pretty remarkable.

Letters to Nobody (and Everybody)

My friend Cathy does a hysterical series over on her blog called Throwback to Hell, which usually features a dissection of one of her old middle school era diary entries - bonus points if there are corresponding pictures. Sometimes she has guest writers post in this series, and I've been trying for months to drag together a decent submission. I don't have all my old journals, but I have several. I'm having a hard time finding something appropriate, because while Cathy manages to find entries that are mostly funny and only a little bit pathetic, everything that I am finding is mostly pathetic and not really funny at all.

There is a very deep and heartbreaking loneliness that permeates just about everything I wrote in my early adolescence. I often kept journals that weren't entirely private - they were series of letters, written to whichever friend I was desperately (and unsuccessfully) trying to get to understand me at the time. Many of these journals actually have written responses from those friends within them, chastising me for things like jealousy and co-dependence and childish behavior - and I was definitely guilty of all of those things. I am not close to any of the girls that I wrote to and for as a young teenager, so there isn't even a way to look back on it and say "look at us" - it's all just "look at me... failing, again, to connect." That doesn't really make for light-hearted blog fun, though I suspect many can relate to that kind of sadness.

That failure to connect has been a theme in my life - constantly seeking my sisters and constantly two steps behind, running to catch up and never quite making it. Sometimes - often - blogging feels like that. An attempt to connect, to make someone understand, to feel like someone SEES me, really sees me. It sometimes feels like the safest way to feel vulnerable... though if my old journals full of letters have taught me anything, your heart is never really safe when you pour it out for someone else to read. I am apparently not a fast learner in this regard.

In keeping with this particular blog's theme though... I often wish I could reach through time and reassure my fourteen year old self that despite her insecurities, she has a right to be here, "no less than the trees and the stars."