In Defense of Moving Home
I’m a proud person. I don’t mean to be, but you won’t catch me asking for help to reach the top shelf of sparkling water at HEB or even being 100% transparent with my doctor at the risk of being vulnerable (“Yeah, no, everything’s good. Good, good, good. I’m pretty much a perfect embodiment of health.”).
Despite that lipstick-stained mask of pride, I’m grateful for unwarranted acts of humbling. Falling in public, realizing one’s skirt is tucked in to one’s pantyhose, revealing one’s not-so-nude Spanx, attempting to buy some feel-good gelato on a bad day, only to be met with a declining credit card with a mile-long line to attest to your mortification.
Those moments remind me no matter what kind of preparations I make, no matter how equipped I am to manage the fun-filled surprises of life, no matter how much I study or learn or hypothesize or assume, I will be met with lots of what do I do now? in life, varying in severity and significance, and that’s ok.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before the humility thing is the pride thing. Back to that.
Exactly one year ago, I ran smack dab into a cement wall of self-doubt and existential crises. I was simultaneously trying to launch my own business as a digital marketing contractor, work part-time at a local boutique, get a ahold of an increasingly debilitating alcohol problem, and remember why I was alive in the first place. Bethany, that’s an odd thing to have to keep track of. I agree.
That’s what life was though. Waking up daily and making a list of reasons I should keep living. I was miserable.
In May, I took a trip west to Terlingua, TX, where big sky meets dry land meets dusty wonder. It struck me like a new crush — you know when you first develop feelings for someone. It’s tender and innocent, it oozes promise and opportunity. It’s sweet like happily ever after before it’s begun.
This idea — it nestled in my brain like a song I couldn’t get out of my head. Move. Get out of Austin. Travel the country. Move. So, I did. I left Austin. I dispersed the belongings I did keep with various gracious family members. I hit the road in September with every intention of not returning for awhile.
I was back by November.
My ego was bruised.
The reasons for my return are for a separate book entirely, but what I came back to was an ever-loving, always-forgiving, perpetually- our door is open family. And an air mattress.
My parents have experienced their fair share of what do we do now? so they are sympathetic and supportive as I crash in my mom’s sewing room and figure out what I do now. A condo already filled to the brim with antiques, trinkets, and my mother’s inherited “it’s not hoarding!!” tendencies is now bursting at the seams with figuring out what’s next.
I never envisioned this would be my reality at 25 (I just really thought I would be adopted by Angelina Jolie by now), but let me get to the grand point of this long-winded work: I think we should be more understanding of those who move back home.
I didn’t move back to my childhood home because I don’t have one. We moved around lots growing up and my parents downsized to an RV as soon as my younger brother graduated high school, then relocated to a tiny home dressed up as a condo on campus, which is why I fall asleep surrounded by antique dolls beaming down at me, begging me to let them down to play with the knives in the kitchen.
And, don’t get me wrong, this home they’ve created is warm and adorable. My mom was Joanna Gaines before Joanna Gaines was Joanna Gaines, I just say all of that because it’s not like I’m moving back into lots of closet and recluse space. We’re sardines making the best of one smart TV and an ever-decreasing supply of coffee. It’s difficult.
But it’s a blessing.
My dad cooks just about every single day. When I lived on my own, solid, meets the demands of the nutrition pyramid meals were few and far between. I love cooking, but who has the time when there are so many true crime documentaries to binge watch?
He has a new movie picked out for us each night. Some are total busts and I have to stop in the middle and ask, for the love of my BA in Film, please change it to something less vomit-inducing.
But then there are total hits that keep us in stitches, and I’m reminded why I love movies so much — I grew up watching all of them, mostly because of my dad. The hits, the misses, the in betweens. All of them.
I saw all the Lord of the Rings films in theater with my dad and siblings (I was nine when the first came out). I just saw Black Panther with him and my brother. I love movies. They make me feel good. They make me feel at home. And now I get to watch them at home with the people I love most.
I get to learn the secrets of the trade from my mother. How to make your homemade cookies mouth-watering and moist (you don’t want to know, I promise), how midwives operated in 19th century England, and how to properly bleach towels without subsequently bleaching oneself. Podcasts and pouring over cook books is our ideal Saturday afternoon together.
We bond over tea blends and essential oils, we experiment in the kitchen (Look, Baba Ganoush is not our forte. We’ve accepted it.), and I get to say “good night, I love you” to her every single night, something I didn’t necessarily cherish growing up because I didn’t miss her. I saw her every single day.
It wasn’t until later in life, recently, when I realized I had gone three months without seeing her face, that I cried out for her and begged to tell her “good night.” I cherish those night time rituals — make up off, skin moisturized, eyebrows plucked — I love you, good night.
We live in a culture that encourages fierce independence from a young age. We’re on a quest of self-fulfillment and personal gain, and we’re often left to our devices. We value individualism and independent purpose over collectivism and common goals. We celebrate the sovereign youth with their own car payments and jobs at sixteen, but admonish them for needing to be home for awhile in their late twenties, early thirties.
Some of us don’t figure it out by the presumed deadlines.
My parents never judged when I needed to spend a weekend at home my Freshman year of college. They weren’t bothered by my friends congregating at our home. They didn’t mind talking on the phone for hours on end.
There was no protest when I needed to come home.
I’m blessed. I’ve learned to be open about my privilege and accept ownership of what that privilege has lead to. I am indescribably lucky to have parents so trustworthy, accepting, and loving. I am indescribably lucky.
Whatcha babbling about, Bethany? Sometimes my pride gets the best of me and I’m forced into situations of humility. This is one of those moments. I’m 25 and living with my parents, not sure how things are going to pan out.
But I’m ok with that.
I’m calmer than I’ve been in four years. I haven’t had a single panic attack since I’ve been home. I’m prioritizing my mental and physical health. I mean, come on, I don’t remember (or want) to eat a salad every day when I’m on my own. It’s natural with my parents. I take my vitamins. I drink enough water. I get outside. I make art. I write blogs.
I’m 25 and I don’t know what I’m doing. I tried for so long to pretend like I did. To pretend I was ok with living paycheck to paycheck. That I could work in abusive environments and survive. That I wanted to be in Austin. That I was living the dream. That I was happy.
I was making lists of reasons to live. Now I’m home, sitting in front of my mother as she creates her own cookbook with recipes she and her mother have saved over the years. I hear the collision of action in the series my dad’s watching combined with cat nap snores from the living room.
I’m home and I’m happy.
Bethany Swoveland is a poet and digital artist in Texas. She’s available for freelance work and can be reached at bethanyswoveland@gmail.com. Sign up for Bethany’s monthly email newsletter here.