Sunday morning we loaded our entire life into a truck and began the drive to the midwest. I'm not going to lie, the last week has been hard. Each day I said goodbye to a different group of students. My heart swells when I think about what a gift it has been to be their teacher. And the packing. I thought I was a minimalist until I packed my kitchen, and literally cried over sheets of packing paper and wine glasses just wanting for it to all be over.
In the past three and a half years Nate and I have created a bonafide home out of this 625 square feet apartment. Its kitchen has been tested, all its walls painted, it's held fights, a puking dog, the comings and goings of being married to someone who travels, and the joy and work that come with marraige.
I aimed to create a sacred space out of laminate wood flooring and stained white carpet. The space forced me to get creative with storage solutions, often times feeling like a constantly evolving puzzle. But it was Home.
Saying goodbye felt surreal. For weeks I felt anxious as I watched the home I created slowly disappear in boxes, becoming less and less recognizable until the day we moved out and it no longer even felt like ours. And although it's just a rental, and it's just four walls, I want to remember it. If only just for myself, I want to remember a details of a home that held so much.