18 houses in 33 years.
Math is my worst subject but that averages to a new home about every two years since I was born.
One of the only things I have ever wanted was stability. I envied people who lived in the same house their whole life, who had the same friends since preschool, who got to carefully craft a room of their own because they didn’t have to worry about settling into a new one so frequently.
But that wasn’t my experience.
I had to learn what moving back home really meant.
Again and again.
***
The first house was in Plantation. Barbie’s Dream House. Everything pink—the walls, the countertops, the carpet. My fingers ran over its course texture watching episodes of Barney and Friends. I had nightmares I would fall through the rosy covered floating stairs and break my spine. My grandparents finalized their divorce, so we moved.
House number two was in Margate. At the end of a cul-de-sac and in front of an abandoned golf course. I failed to learn how to ride a bike on that roundabout and met one of my first best girlfriends. We had a jean blue sofa, pink flowers with and green leaves. I loved being alone with Mother and Mimi and our “unbirthday” parties for my stuffed animals. But Mother got pregnant and married so we moved again.
Apartment number three was in Coconut Creek. The earliest memories of depression. I wrote my feelings down in my school composition notebooks next to my times tables. Jealous of my new baby sister, the focus of attention. She had her mom and dad and grandparents and aunts and me. I had books and writing. My parents wanted to buy a home for more stability, so we moved again.
The fourth house was also in Coconut Creek. The bathroom with the jungle mural and a jaguar staring at me every time I shit. Our backyard lined a preserve; I would sit outside on the swings or lay on the trampoline and listen to the critters chirp. My father died while we were living there and my life was never the same. I was friends with all the neighbors’ kids but the one I was closest to bullied me a lot. They sold the house, so we moved again.
The fifth house was another apartment in Plantation. I made some very nice girlfriends at my new middle school. I went fishing on the docks over the lake in the middle of the neighborhood; one time I caught a bass and let him go back home because I knew the feeling of being a fish out of water. Mother got pregnant again and my stepdad got a new job, so we moved even further again.
House number six was in Wellington. We might as well have moved to California. Unexpected culture shock: people had money and they liked to show it. Eighth grade was a tough year and I stopped eating. Still, I smiled in every picture. Always have been good at hiding the pain. The lease was up and my other sister was born and we needed more space, so we moved again.
House number seven was across town in Wellington. The neighborhood had a lot of bridges connecting the sprawl of identical mini-McMansions. I rode my bike and rollerblades over them until I made friends with the girls who had a golf cart. They were all kissing the boys, but when the dare circled around to me, I chickened out. Mother and Mimi bought land for us to build a home together, so for what we hoped was the last time, we moved again.
The eighth house was The Compound at Lago Del Sol. Technically it was Lake Worth but we were zoned for school in Wellington. We painted my room with Victoria Secret stripes and painted the furniture black. It was the first room that felt like mine, but it was shrouded in darkness. It was the house of our dreams but was it really a Dream Home? 2008 Market Crash and missed mortgage payments. We fought to stay but lost. Things fell apart and it was time to move again.
The ninth house was in Sarasota. My first time living on my own, at another compound for students. Smack between an arts college and near-constant gunshots. One of my roommates became my best friend and the other had the most heartbreaking stories from Iraq. I had some pretty insane experiences in that house, but I couldn’t sleep with the endless crack of bullets, so I moved again.
Apartment ten was a studio on the other side of Sarasota. The first time I lived completely alone. My bed a futon in the middle of the living room. I found my dog Buster at the park down the street with a family who couldn’t care for him anymore. Two lonely souls who desperately needed each other. I took a summer art class but broke my wrist so I learned to write and draw with my left hand. Woke up on Valentine’s Day with the kidney stone that almost killed me. Too sick to stay on my own, I moved back home again.
I stayed at our family Compound for a bit but not long after I lived in apartment eleven in Nashville, Tennessee. It was the farthest I’ve lived from home. I wanted it to be my escape, but I couldn’t outrun myself. It was a dark time and instead of hiding in the shadows, I became one. The therapist I saw told me I was going to die or get help. I guess I chose the latter and begrudgingly moved home, once again.
House number twelve was a rental in the neighborhood right next to The Compound. It was fucking infested with roaches and the lady who owned it was a cunt. I went to rehab while I lived there, struggling to not self-destruct. Decided I was getting too old for my own bullshit and went back to school. My parents separated for a bit and then got back together so we moved…again.
I would count living with Mimi as the thirteenth apartment. I stayed with her for several months after I got out of treatment and again when I was having bad back problems. Retirees and snowbirds right on the intracoastal and never above 78 degrees. Watching her slowly fade away in those blue walls, the waves of dementia eroding the coastlines of her mind. I wasn’t fully comfortable there, so I moved home again.
The fourteenth house was in Wellington and it was huge. I had to move my room downstairs when my back got bad and I couldn’t get upstairs anymore. My sister singing The Climb by Miley Cyrus to cheer me up when I was in so much pain I couldn’t leave the bed. I finally finished my associate’s degree so I applied to finish my bachelor’s at USF and moved again.
Apartment number fifteen was in Tampa and I swore it was the last time I would leave home. Wrong. My roommate was batshit crazy and some weirdo she met broke into our apartment and robbed us. It felt so good to be on my own; even the walk to campus felt like freedom. My mind was more stable, but not my spine. I bent over wrong and wouldn’t be able to walk right for years, so I moved back home again.
Our rental was being sold so we temporarily lived in house number sixteen on the outskirts of Wellington near the Everglades. My lumbar discs burst and I needed surgery. I woke up every morning to see the horses grazing, trying to teach myself to walk again down the dirt trails. The middle of summer and shitty air-conditioning so I spent a lot of time in the coldest spot I could find—my parent’s closet. We knew this place was temporary, so we moved again.
House number seventeen is in Wellington and my parents still live there. We survived COVID quarantine locked up together for over a year. My autoimmune disease wrecking my life and spending a lot of time in bed. But I finished my bachelor’s and started my master’s degree and thought I was heading toward career stability and my “purpose”. We adopted my other dog Charlie, my sweet psychotic angel. This home ties for the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place—five years. But it was time for me to finally leave the nest, so I moved again.
And that is finally when I came home.
My house today, number eighteen, is the first place that has ever felt like home. It has been the honor of my life to nurture and care for this space over the last five years. I have tried to infuse every square inch with love and attention. Ritualizing cleaning and breathing and gardening and swimming and singing and observing and feeling to allow myself to finally heal in a safe environment. It is far from perfect but, much like me, a work in ever-progress. The birds sing loudly and the breeze always blows and the butterflies float by to lay their eggs. My sister used to live here and I’ve had some roommates, but I’ve been fortunate to finally spend a significant amount of time completely alone. It is the first place I have ever felt safe enough to settle into.
***
At long last, I have learned that moving back home means building security and stability within yourself. Having a consistent structure helps, but that’s just not the reality for some of us. In the sacred stillness, I’ve slowly metamorphosized into autonomy. My home is my chrysalis.
Where will house number nineteen be? If I had the choice, I’d never move again. I’d stay right where I am until I die. But I also want a home that is fully mine—a space I can sustain on my own. And although I have not found that yet, I do think I will.
This past summer I traveled farther than I’ve ever been before. As I stood on the shores of an unfamiliar place, I felt strangely at home, like I could find and develop that feeling no matter where my feet are standing.
I do want to see more of the world, but I know I need the security of my own space to fall back on. As I am becoming more stable within myself, I feel I am getting closer and closer to finding it.
