On Making Yourself At Home

It was a hot and humid day in August when I began my college journey.

As soon as we arrived at the dorm, several energetic and cheerful people in yellow shirts immediately started unloading our car. Before we could even take a breath, the car was completely unloaded and all of my stuff was waiting for me outside my dorm room. This hard goodbye with your family that everyone had talked about was coming sooner than anticipated, and I didn’t think I was ready.

We went up to my room to unpack, set up my bedspread, took move-in day pictures, and then it was time to say goodbye.

It wasn’t until my parents and my brother drove away that it started to feel weird. They just dropped me off and I had no idea when I would see them again next.

I was hopeful that I would understand why everyone says “college is the best four years of your life” and that “this place will become your home.” Part of me was thinking, “I already have a home back in New Hampshire, why do I need another one?” But another part of me was trying to believe that it’s possible to have multiple homes in this world.

The conversations that I had during retreats and service trip reflections, during club meetings, while I was volunteering and working around campus, and during club cross country practice made me feel like I belonged. I felt like I could be myself unapologetically. The people I met throughout my college journey gave me the courage to challenge myself and strive to be the person I wanted to become.

From when I was born to when I was 18 years old, my home was New Hampshire because that’s where my parents raised me. I knew the best diners in town and the best places to grab food after school. And then I had to start all over again.

When I was 18 years old, Boston College became my home because I immersed myself in the community and grew as a person through deep and meaningful conversations.

Now that I’ve graduated, home is a little harder to define.

Right after I graduated, I moved in with my grandparents to save a little money and because they lived close to my workplace. My grandmother’s homemade meatloaf and lasagna was incredible and seeing their faces when I would get home from work everyday was priceless.

But I was hesitant to make this my home.

I didn’t put anything on the walls, which contributed to my mindset that this was temporary. I went back to my hometown almost every weekend, feeling very lost. I didn’t know what was home anymore because I was constantly on the road—in one state during the week and another state on the weekends. I went back and forth so frequently that I rarely had to re-pack my duffle bag.

Home felt transitory, and I wasn't quite sure what was home.

But through my job first job at MIT, I realized that an office can be a home too.

It was great when I first started this job, but something still felt like it was missing. It didn’t feel like home (in the office sense). I liked the work that I was doing and generally enjoyed the office environment, but something felt off.

Two months in, I started eating lunch with some of my co-workers on a regular basis. This led to spending more time with them outside of work, like going to Red Sox games and grabbing drinks and appetizers at happy hour.

I began to feel a sense of comfort when I walked into my office building. It wasn’t as intimidating anymore; it was a home now.

Six months after graduation, I finally moved into my own apartment. This was different than the time I moved out for college or when I moved to my grandparent's house because this time I didn’t know when I would be going back. I moved to the outskirts of Boston, not that far from where I had previously been living, but it still felt like I was moving far away because now I was officially on my own.

In post-grad, you might be three miles from your alma mater, and 35 miles from your hometown, but you still have to pave a new path to become independent, no matter how far or near you moved.

Finding home is harder in post-grad but once we find it, we have a feeling it will all be okay. Maybe home is just seeing the light in everything, even in the darkness. Maybe home can be found in the simplest of times like watching Grey’s Anatomy or The Bachelor with roommates or going on a long walk with a friend after grabbing a slice of pizza. Maybe home is going out for drinks with co-workers after work. Maybe home is simply a sense of comfort.

Boston College provided me with so many opportunities that allowed me to quickly feel at home. I found my niche and I found my people; the people who gave me the courage to be myself, be vulnerable, and the people who are still some of my people today (you know who you are…).

Boston College will always be my home. My childhood home in New Hampshire will always be my home. I will never fully depart from these homes but instead bring with me the memories and lessons learned from those experiences. All of our past homes have contributed into creating us into the people we are today.

I’m thankful for the home that Boston College gave me, but now it’s time to replicate that in this post-grad life and find my place in this world.

A home isn’t just a house, dorm room, or apartment. It’s the people, experiences, and opportunities that make a place a home.

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Featured

The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Graduation, Life, RelationshipsAllie OlivieriJune 17, 2018Comment

On Making Yourself At Home

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