The beautiful mundane.

I'm at work delivering medications to the next client of the morning route. A stack of prescriptions unfastened to my passenger seat rattles about with each turn I make. I steer with one hand and skip Spotify songs with the other. I’ve got the A/C on low and Gwen Stefani on blast when a text runs across my phone's notifications.

“Let me know if you wish to move forward,” from my prospective landlord. It was the first residence I had ever toured just a week ago after being connected by a friend.

Huh. Incredible luck. My first job interview resulted in an offer, and now my first apartment application results in an offer.

My home situation at the time was renting from my mother alongside a disowned older sibling I call my housemate due to his abusive exploits over 20 years.

Big steps outside of academic settings induce much anxiety for me. Growing up, I used scholarly escapes to dissociate from trauma while simultaneously living up to it, distracting myself from an abusive home life only to poorly navigate the expectations set for a second-generation Asian-American. I had no self-worth or confidence to traverse a world that wasn’t school, so I felt I had to be book-smart at the least.

Ace a capstone undergrad final on 15 minutes of sleep? Easy.

Fill out some adult-life document? NOPE.

I earned my driver’s license at 22.
I got my first job and car at 24.
Now I might have my first apartment at 26.

My thoughts ran rampant for the next few hours as I left the offer unanswered. I was now on a timer. This was my chance to leave the nest.

Should I tour more apartments? Should I consider roommates? Should I hold off and practice another month of the strictest budgeting? Should I wait till next year? Should I do another round of purging my belongings first? What if I get lonely? What if I get bored? What if a studio isn’t enough space? What if money’s too tight for a one-bedroom? What if something goes wrong and I have to move back home?

What if parking sucks?

Then, I snapped.

A grown man looked you in the eyes three years ago and expressed indifference over how suicidal he made you. Here you are having an internal debate about parking availability while he sleeps soundly down the hall from you in a home where dreams fester and die. You know damn well hope is crushed under this roof. You’ve wanted to leave for who knows how long. You’ve spent the last three years strengthening yourself inside and out. You’ve never loved yourself more.

Have you no shame? Take a chance, asshole.

In a hot-blooded rush with steam coming from my ears, I accepted the offer. The next day, I retrieved the keys, walked to a nearby bar, snagged some sub-par takeout, and ate it on the floor of my first apartment (shrimp fried rice with a can of Pepsi).

Fast-forward another three weeks, I’m all moved in and my gosh, I’ve loved every moment of this process.

I’ve loved all the little annoyances and obligations:

Angling the modem just right so my Internet doesn’t crap out.
Hauling heavy shit up and down flights of stairs.
Stumbling through requesting a cashier’s check for the security deposit.
Accidentally slicing my thigh open while cutting apart Amazon boxes and realizing I have no first-aid kit.
Flipping the A/C breaker off every day because the compressor relay is stuck.
Practicing parallel parking on crowded residential one-ways.
Getting my first parking ticket.
And all the other little gripes people put up with.

And I’ve also deeply loved the beautiful mundane:

Chopping veggies on my cutting board for a rejuvenating post-workout dinner.
Building every bit of furniture with my bare hands.
Scrubbing a greasy nook of a square bowl as hard as I can.
Spending an hour staring at my kitchen with my hands on my hips and doing the spatial mental math on the best spot to place a trash bin.
Getting blasted by cold water from a loose showerhead.
Cracking a window open to fall asleep to the white noise of the neighborhood.
Organizing my bookshelf’s mix of classic literature and dorky vampire stuff.
Introducing myself to my downstairs neighbor to apologize ahead of time for the noise I make from moving in.
Doing laundry at the end of the week with a handful of quarters.
And every single step I make on the living room carpet.

I’m in love with my home.

I’m never going back. I’ll make sure of that.

Right as my life moved from a chapter titled “Heal” to one titled “Bloom” I was coincidentally gifted a lovely bouquet of flowers from a joy of a friend and neighbor. It sits right on my desk, front and center of my home, and is the first thing I see when I open the door.

Making peace with the past brings about a restful sleep that starts and ends, but embracing the future makes every day feel like a dream.

But yes, parking does suck.