Though there were men and parties and plenty of people to lose myself in, my bed remained mine as I continued to prioritize my relationship with myself first. I wasn’t afraid to share an opinion, to speak up at work, to ask for what I wanted. I slowly opened up into a version of myself that I know today. Something about those plastered walls, old and cracking from the weight of countless tenants, gave me strength. I let go of my eating disorder and embraced what it felt like to be full-full of real food, real freedom, real self-love. Here, I roasted chicken late into the night, found faith I could change through a loving dialogue rather than a punishing one. You were the one place that did not judge-when friends and family and strangers heard stories and shot glances and worried I’d lost my way. A closet for a kitchen, an apartment made for one, it was a pinhole of light at what was my rock bottom. I walked through the musty hallway into this crooked corner apartment and knew I was home. You brought out the worst in me, only so I could stop pretending there wasn’t pain to face. You, my shiny new apartment, taught me things and appearances could never fill me up, the same way alcohol and work and love couldn’t bury what I’d have to confront myself. For if you cannot treat your body as a home worth maintaining, worth loving, how can you possibly know what it feels like to be home? Really, truly “at home”? I couldn’t wish away or bury my relationship with myself. You, my perfect adult apartment, showed me what I spent a lifetime running from. We can paint pretty pictures and tell pretty stories, but they’ll still read like lies if they require an audience to become true. No matter how fine, how shiny, or how new your finishes, the never-been-used granite countertops and the new appliances couldn’t contain what was broken in you. And yet, I felt less at ease than I ever had felt before. Cups and bowls and plates, all with the promise of a new life together, often bathed and shined brightly in the sun as each day came to a close. It was light and beautiful and new things arrived almost every day. I hope you enjoy the behind-the-scenes look at a younger version of me. Below you’ll see glimpses of my decor choices in the few photos I do have, and glimpses of the lifestyle I led, too. The first few apartments I lived in were before Instagram and before Wit & Delight, and I have hardly any photos from them. I thought it was high time I write a little love letter to all the homes that led to the life I’ve built today. These rooms hold the stories we keep as long as our memory serves us. I can still remember the first time Joe walked into my creaky old apartment and asked to use my bathroom. The truth is, the textile on my first couch is as vivid as the breakup that happened atop those corduroy cushions. We speak a lot about making a home on this site, and sometimes the lives that unfold here are secondary to topics like tile and sofas. They appear, most clearly, in the rooms in which they unfolded, in the homes I made for myself in my first fifteen years of “adulting.”
My memories stitch the story of my life together in moments that I can smell, taste, and experience more than I can narrate. Today we’re sharing it again with a fresh new addition: a love letter to the home on Otis Ave., pictured above. Editor’s Note: This post, originally published in February of 2020, is one of the most beloved articles on.
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