When I was 28 years old, I realized with agonizing clarity that I hated my life. I sat in my car, staring at the Borders bookshop sign and crying. Every time I thought I’d finally expelled those pent-up feelings of anger, disappointment, and shame—all of which I directed at myself—I’d just start crying all over again. I must have sat in that parking lot for almost an hour. I’d never felt so alone before. I had no idea how I’d manage, but I knew I needed to change my life. 

A seemingly ordinary outing with friends

I had just spent the afternoon with friends I’d known since high school, the kind of people who love you and your quirks, who help you overthink every possibility, who have helped create so many inside jokes that you could pee your pants remembering them all, and who protect you fiercely. Friends, who when recently asked, described me as genuine, objective, passionate, and hilarious. I am truly blessed to have these people still in my life today.

And yet on that day back in 2009, I had been an utterly sullen, grouchy, cynical killjoy. When we met for lunch at Applebees, I refused to order anything and sat there exuding boredom and sneering at their meals. Even though I had laughed during The Proposal, I found the post-movie chatter empty, trivial, and mind numbing. As we munched on treats at Borders cafe, I rolled my eyes at every joke, snapped at their comments, and judged their opinions. As we perused the bookshelves, one friend nonchalantly asked, “Why are the tarot cards in the religious section?” 

Something inside me snapped. “To some people, that is their religion,” I shouted. My friends look scared, not of me, but for me. They and I had no idea where from this bitter, nasty person had emerged. 

I had trapped myself inside a life of repetition and predictability. 

Suddenly, the bookstore felt incredibly small. The chain restaurants, the only decent mall, my hometown, and especially my childhood bedroom in which I still lived had all become too small. I had trapped myself inside a life of repetition and predictability. 

I finally ran out of the store before I said anything else I’d regret. I slammed my car door shut and started my car. I shifted into reverse, but I couldn’t take my foot off the break. I had nowhere I wanted to go. I turned off the enginition and sobbed.

The promise of endless possibilities

When I attended American University in Washington, D.C., I tasted the possibilities of life. I thrived among the multitude of different cultures, the endless variety of restaurants, the easy access to museums and knowledge, and the constant surprise of new events and outdoor gatherings. 

I thought university life was solely about acquiring academic and self knowledge; I had no clue how to support myself so that I could stay in the city I loved.

But while I focused on enjoying university life, evolving into the next version of myself, and graduating with honors, I didn’t consider funneling some of that energy into looking for a job. I thought university life was solely about acquiring academic and self knowledge; I had no clue how to support myself so that I could stay in the city I loved. None of my classes included lessons on applying for jobs. I hadn’t yet learned to calculate how much income I would need to afford an apartment, food, health insurance, and general cost of living. 

So when I left university in 2004 with nothing more than a bachelor’s degree and $50,000 of student debt, my parents eagerly welcomed me back home. 

Intimidated by a high cost of living 

Five years later, I was still living at home. 

I had been working as a managing editor for a B2B science magazine, Laboratory Equipment, so I had at least found a job within my field—writing and editing, not science. I originally joined the team as an assistant editor and honed my editing skills under the tutelage of patient, supportive mentors. During my six years of employment, I earned four promotions; however, only two included a pay increase. 

Thanks to my parents providing a roof over my head, I had managed to pay off the majority of my student loan debt. However, New Jersey has an extremely high cost of living. I had tried finding an apartment (and a roommate, so I could afford said apartment). But my parents always managed to convince me I was being foolish. 

Yet deep down, I knew that the ideals, values, and financial reality of their young adult lives weren't mine.

Their efforts to protect me also made me doubt myself. Yet deep down, I knew that the ideals, values, and financial reality of their young adult lives weren't mine. Some of the lessons they imparted—work smarter, not harder; having an apartment is like throwing money away; steps are easier than a leap—weren’t applicable anymore. Sometimes the work we love most requires working harder. Apartments offer a gateway to personal growth. And the steps I'd taken hadn't worked.

Still, I kept applying for jobs in the Maryland area. Many potential employers interviewed me via phone and in person. Rosetta Stone even flew me down. Several times, I made the final round of candidates. In the end, someone already living in the area always got the job. 

Trapped in childhood

Thus, I spent five years trapped in limbo. I was now 28 years old, and I swear I could literally hear my biological clock ticking. I dated a bit, but every guy I met wanted to stay in New Jersey for the rest of their lives. I, on the other hand, kept trying to move out of state. 

While several of those guys also lived at home, I was embarrassed I did too. Even though I insisted on paying my parents rent and did my own laundry, I felt like a child, not a grown woman. I tried buying some of my own groceries and cooking my own meals but eventually gave up; my mom hates anyone else cooking in her kitchen. I was just playing pretend.

I kept snatching at pieces of the life I wanted, but the mementos had begun burying me. 

Stuffing 28 years of life into one pink bedroom began to prove impossible. Every shelf overflowed with books, knickknacks, and souvenirs from university life and traveling abroad. I kept snatching at pieces of the life I wanted, but the mementos had begun burying me. 

As a result, I postponed being in a serious relationship until I had a place of my own, and I held off getting a place of my own until I had found a job back in the Maryland or D.C. area. But that afternoon with my friends, I cried in my car because I had run out of hope.

Choosing to take a leap and change my life

Our most challenging moments are also the ones that change us the most. After crying in my car for what felt like forever, I called my best friend in Maryland. She told me to quit my job and temporarily move in with her and her husband. 

The thought of quitting a stable job in the middle of an economic recession terrified me. But all the small steps I had taken to reshape my life hadn’t gotten me far. If I wanted a drastically different life, I had to make a drastic change. I needed to leap.

If I wanted a drastically different life, I had to make a drastic change.

Finally, with a plan in mind, I shifted my car out of park and went home. I found my mom sitting outside, rocking on the deck swing. I sat beside her, cried again, and told her everything that had transpired. My mom looked at me, really looked at me, and agreed I needed to do this. 

Applying for an anchor 

Now, I am a rather logical person. If I was going to leave my job, I needed something to anchor me, so the following spring I applied for grad school. Back in D.C., I wanted to attend only one school’s MFA program—the school at which I had lived my best life thus far: The American University. 

At the same time, my parents decided to retire and follow my brother down to Florida. Before I could blink, my parents found a realestate agent and put my childhood home up for sale.

While awaiting AU’s reply and assuming the house would be on the market for a few months, I traveled with a friend to London and Edinburgh. To me, that trip represented an exciting kickstart to the new life I was actively building. I asked my mom that if a letter should arrive from AU, she should tell me only if I had been accepted; otherwise, I’d assume the letter hadn’t arrived yet. 

To me, that trip represented an exciting kickstart to the new life I was actively building.

After I returned from an amazing trip abroad and a good night’s rest, my parents announced the next day that someone had already placed an offer on our house—and the buyer wanted us to move out within a month. My parents and brother bounced excitedly around the kitchen as they began planning their move, how we would pack up the house, where in Florida they wanted to look for houses, when they would book their first flight to go house hunting, etc. 

I just stood there, almost invisible. Finally, I spoke up. “What about me? I don’t even know if I got into AU yet.” 

My parents and my brother froze, staring at me. No one dared to speak. I asked my mom if she got the envelope from AU. She nodded, the rest of her body still unable to move. 

“I didn’t get in, did I?” I asked. My mom nodded again. 

I politely excused myself and went to my bedroom. I closed the door, lay on my bed, and wailed. I had failed again. 

Defeating self-doubt

My mom knocked on my door, but I refused to open it. I thought the next leap was mine to take. Instead, my alma mater confirmed my writing wasn’t good enough. And now I was losing the only home I’d ever known. 

Everyone else could make their dreams come true, but my efforts were a joke. What was wrong with me? I had entered university believing “the world was my oyster,” but exiting university slapped me across the face. Dreams were just that, dreams. 

Everyone else could make their dreams come true, but my efforts were a joke. What was wrong with me?

I heard another knock on my door, but I didn’t look up. I curled myself up into a tighter ball of grief. 

My dad sat down beside me—my dad who avoided big feelings, my dad with whom I’d never had a heart to heart. I sat up, rested my head on his shoulder, and cried. He rubbed my back and said over and over again, “I know. I know.” And I knew he did, because a passion for academics was one (perhaps the only) area in which we could relate. And then he said, “So what are you going to do next?” 

And as I exhaled disappointment and inhaled determination, I said, “Apply to other grandschools.” And in that moment, I knew I would. I knew I’d keep trying. I’m rather perseverent, just like my father. With renewed hope, I applied to Johns Hopkins University’s MA writing program. And I got in.

Because I don’t have many positive memories with my dad, I hold this one close to my heart. 

Saying goodbye to childhood 

I gave my job notice. Those same good friends, to whom I apologized and who stuck by my side, cheered me on and threw me a party. My whole family quickly packed up my childhood home, and we all said goodbye in July 2010. My brother and his truck were the first to drive away that morning, his most prized possessions secured under bungee cords. 

I lingered. I took a video walkthrough of our empty house, recording the vacuum lines that erased where furniture used to rest. I stood on the driveway, recalling my dad and brother clinging to ladders while painting the brown trim during the height of summer, the basketball hoop where my brother used to play HORSE on his knees to give me some (pretend) advantage, and the baby bunnies my mom discovered in the front garden around the faux well. That house may have felt too small for a grown woman looking to make her own life, but I learned a lot about myself under that roof too. 

Moreover, that house contained both the darkest moments of my life but also the happiest. Although I can’t forget the fractured memories that haunt me—the screaming, the spanking, the smashed objects, the mirror hiding a hole in the door, the truths no child should ever learn, the burdens no child should ever bear, the terror of hiding behind a locked door—I choose to hold onto the best memories. 

That house may have felt too small for a grown woman looking to make her own life, but I learned a lot about myself under that roof too. 

When I was just a young girl full of imagination, I had run around that backyard chasing fallen leaves scattered by fairies. I had sat under shady trees and asked them to take away my troubles. I had captured knuts and salamanders in the stream while soaking my jeans with mud. I had run from the black bear that lived on the mountain behind our house. One Thanksgiving, we counted 24 wild turkeys protesting in our backyard.

I’d had countless birthday parties with a piñata hanging from the basketball hoop, the scent of grilled hot dogs and hamburgers wafting through the air. My brother and I built an igloo in the front yard, where I shoved chunks of ice down his shirt as he squirmed and screamed (and let me) while I laughed madly. In spring, we lay on the driveway in sleeping bags as we counted meteors streaking across the night sky. 

To this day, my dreams often return me to that house. Sometimes it represents a safe haven, other times a trap. How can I love so dearly a house that contains such complex emotions? 

Facing the unknown, alone

After my mom and I danced our way to a goodbye hug and my dad embraced me tightly, I climbed into my little blue car and drove away. I had to finish a few more workdays with my employer, so I spent my last nights in my home state as a guest on a friend’s sofa. 

It’s odd, being suddenly severed from your home, being only 15 minutes away but forever locked out. And even though I sat at the cusp of my own great adventure, I felt left behind and terrified. Yes, I had grad school to look forward to, but I also had health insurance withdrawing more than $200 a month and zero income. And I still had no idea how much income I’d need to afford living in Maryland, alone. 

Even though I sat at the cusp of my own great adventure, I felt left behind and terrified.

Otherwise, all I had was a room in a friend’s house. And even that would go awry. 

Still, I took that leap, trying to push aside the realization that I had nowhere I could go back to. My parents had sold the safety net, and Florida was not my dream. But as I drove closer to the state line, my sorrow and fear started to fall away, piece by piece, mile by mile. 

And when I read the welcome to Maryland sign, euphoria filled me with the promise of possibilities. I still had challenges ahead of me, but that decision to leap and change my life would eventually lead me to obtain a job in my favorite city, to find the love of my life, and to create two boys whom I will treasure forever. 

To my readers: 

What major life choices did you make that reshaped your life, even if you didn’t realize at that time how significant that change would become? Were you scared, sad, excited, or more? 

Featured photo by Erin P.T. Canning; Cranberry Lake, New Jersey