Notes from Starting Over...

Just over a month ago, a major chapter of my adult life came to an end. It was a bittersweet but necessary end to a period riddled with a mixture of greatness and gradual financial decline, after several career fluctuations and pay cuts that couldn’t keep up with inflation. Such is the case for so many Americans today. So, what's it like to start over? Let me tell you about it.

If I had to give the closed chapter a name, it would be “Living Single,” like the sitcom. The setting was my beloved apartment in the sky. For three years, that place was my anchor, a warm refuge and symbol of achieving the status I’d long aspired to be: young, independent, and free. Unexpectedly, it also became a sacred ground for my personal metamorphosis; in its walls, I was able to find and claim the true me. I opened my heart to dating. I healed wounds. I lost my virginity. I took my first voice lessons. I auditioned and acted in my first play. I wrote, journaled, and created. I learned hard lessons. I stuck with therapy. I stood up for myself against many forces of negativity. And still, I rose. Looking around that place, you saw a visual representation of me: a pro-Black, neurospicy cinephile, music enthusiast, and certified lover girl. My former apartment was more than a living space; it was my favorite residence so far and the place where I finally gave myself permission to be anything and everything that I wanted to be.

With sadness, I knew that I would be parting ways with my beloved abode last summer. Sudden income loss had given me a tough reality check: as long as I was employed, I was fine; but when hard times hit, there was no longer a financial safety net to catch me. I tried to fight it as long as I could, but the move was unavoidable. The rent that had started out surprisingly affordable in 2022 had jumped to nearly $1,500. I'm a single cat mom trying to handle it all on my own, that amount was insane. I’d moved there as a healthcare professional paid handsomely enough to pay rent, bills, and have plenty leftover. Now, I was consumed each month by the stress of making rent alone. Even though far too many of us have do it, this is no way to live.

I made the official query to my mom during a phone conversation, sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. “So, if and when Remy and I are homeless, can we come home?” I asked casually. She laughed and said, “Of course. Let me talk to Stepdaddy about it and we’ll figure out the logistics.” We talked about the timeline and the plan was set. It was official, I was moving.

Author's Note: Remy is my cat and “Stepdaddy” is my stepfather bestie. Despite not coming into my life until I was 16, several close friends through the years have commented that they always thought that he was my dad (which is lowkey warranted if we’re being real). Because he goes above and beyond the epitome of what a great stepparent should be, I call him “Stepdaddy” in a very specific tone with much affection and zero shade. It’s like my version of the Feeny call, but just for him (if you don’t know who George Feeny is, you’re too young).

It’s now one month post move-out and I finally feel like I’m catching my breath. It took a lot of work, but my life was successfully reduced from a two Bedroom apartment into a bedroom and a storage unit. I’ve purged countless items, giving away everything from furniture to cleaning supplies. With the new challenge of clothes storage and trying to redefine my style, I’ll likely be giving away more. While packing, I felt an urge to shed a lot of the extra weight from the former phases of my existence. The woman that I am today is a completely different person than the one who left home six years ago. The one who leaves home this time around will have changed even more. So, it was important to let go of the things that no longer serve me at this stage of my life. The move also exposed a need to work on my overconsumption of goods; because sis, we are a household of one, why do we have 15 coffee mugs?! Between grieving the closing chapter and executive dysfunction, I put off packing until the last possible moment; but with the help of friends and family, I got it done.

Now, that I'm somewhat settled, I've also been trying to figure out where I fit in. Yes, this space is warm and it feels homey because of my family's presence, but it's never been my home before. I am a queen in another queen's castle. Some days it feels like it more than others. How do I balance being myself without being a disturbance to anyone else? How do I find that balance without losing myself? How do I claim space and time for me without seeming antisocial? How do I handle the constant reminders that the woman who loves having her own space, no longer has her own space? How do I live at home, grown?

Outside pondering those questions, going through with the hard decision to move has me in a space of deep gratitude. It’s great to spend more time with my family, especially my baby brother, who is growing up faster than I ever anticipated. I also appreciate having a family that is kind enough to welcome me back home while I rebuild. Far too many Black folks have a mentality of cutting off their children once they are of age. "As soon as they turn 18, they're out of here," is a phrase that I hear way too often in our community and it's sad. While everyone grows up, no one never stops needing parental support or love. I appreciate that my parents have never had that attitude. It's up to me to be responsible, but when I need them, they always show up. 

The last part of my gratitude is simple: the end of every chapter means that a new one begins. Whether you're 30, 40, or 50 and up, know that starting over is more common than we think. I've learned that it's not a mark of devalue, shame, or inaptitude. Instead, it is a mark of wisdom; having the gumption to do what needs to be done. I came, I saw, I conquered the "Living Single," moment and I will again. Until then, I’m interested in seeing what this new chapter holds. 

This post is dedicated to all the girlies and guys who are out here just trying to make it. I see you. I am you. It's all going to work out.

Stay encouraged. #StayKultured