Another Year Here

Every year when I re-sign my lease in October, I feel painfully sentimental, even more than I do on New Year’s Eve. I’m agreeing to another year here, twelve more months of walking up these steps, vacuuming these floors, and cuddling up in this bedroom. I realize I’m extremely blessed to be able to afford an apartment by myself, in my location, in this economy. In fact, I’m one of the few people I know in my life who lives alone and not with a roommate, family member, child, or partner (and now, pet). Living alone is something I believe everyone should experience for even just a year, if you have the means and the opportunity because it teaches you many things about yourself that you probably didn’t know. Plus the quiet, the freedom, and the individuality of it all is truly… a gift.

I would know. I’ve had my own place for six years and was totally on my own for five of those years. At first, it was quite an adjustment. You learn a great deal about self-trust, how to rely on yourself, and how to live with yourself — in the quiet and the noise. And now, I treasure it. It’s been one of the biggest learning experiences of my life.

“ONLY IS NOT LONELY,” my new Hobonichi planner cover reads in confident, reassuring caps. It struck me the moment I saw it. Those four words resonated with me so deeply. It made me consider how often I say or think “only” negatively: I only have one true friend. I’m the only person in my life who keeps a notebook. It’s only me in this apartment now. But honestly, in reflection, “only” has been my quiet, gracious solitude, not a lonely one.

After losing my dog last May, staying in my apartment was oftentimes painful. There are memories of her everywhere, and her absence was (and still is) so loud. The routine I had with her was suddenly broken; it took me weeks to no longer factor her feeding and walking times into my schedule, and months to stop crying every day. Staying at other people’s places when her absence was too much was helpful. In fact, spending the weekend at my boyfriend’s place (and on some weekends, at his mother’s place) was one of the most comforting parts of this rollercoaster year.

It made me realize how even many friends of mine, many of whom are now rightfully in the past, never once invited me to their place even though they frequented mine. I didn’t realize it at the time, but after having my boyfriend and his family open doors to their very personal spaces and invite me inside, I knew immediately what I was missing from others all this time.

Each person’s home is so incredibly personal. And pretty soon, it won’t be only me in my apartment anymore. My boyfriend and I are already discussing moving in together next year, then moving out into a new place of our own. While I’ve enjoyed my solitude all these years, I’ve always wanted to build and share a home with someone I loved, just like I’ve built a little home of my own. I’ve tried painstakingly with others in the past. Hopefully the third time’s the charm.

The fact is: I moved into this apartment after a decade-long relationship ended, heartbroken. I always considered this place to be like a halfway house — somewhere I could live temporarily, where I could cry and heal in quiet peace, then go back out into the “real” world when I was “me” again. Along the way, more heartbreak happened, more healing required. Now, six years later, I realize I’ve always been me — many tears more, sure, but stronger and wiser now.

After all this time, I’m so grateful for yet another year here after all.