I had a strange revelation today. And it’s one I’m kind of afraid and ashamed to admit.
When we first moved here to Georgia, I would have done anything, and I mean anything, just to go home. I missed the house I grew up in. I missed the comfort of home. I missed how safe I felt and how protected I knew I was. I missed feeling like I was still a teenager even though I was well into my twenties. I missed home. And I worried I always would. I feared I’d always feel like I was out of place anywhere but there. I hated how much my life changed. I hated how I knew things would never ever go back to the way they were because they couldn’t.
It put a lot of strain on my very new marriage. Somewhere deep inside I kind of resented my husband for accomplishing a dream he’d had since we started dating: grad school at UGA. He pulled me away from everything and everyone I loved. I lived in a box, not a home.
We’ve been married for nearly 10 months. And we’ve lived here for nine months. In that time, we’ve acquired one more cat and a dog. The five of us live here in our tiny two bedroom apartment. And lately hubs and I have been chatting a whole heck of a lot about what’s next. Where to? Our lease ends here in July and the sky’s the limit. Which has gotten me thinking and opening my mind to a whole bunch of new possibilities. And I didn’t realize until now how much good it does me. We’ve been traveling so much lately that I feel relief when we open the door to our home. I feel comfort as long as my little family is near. We’ve become our own little unit.
And this morning while I was getting ready it hit me: I am home. And I am no longer completely consumed with that I miss home feeling. Don’t get me wrong, I miss my family and friends. But I’m so happy that it’s finally hit me.
Wherever we are together is home.
Does that mean we’re grown ups now? Man, that sucks.