As I get ready to spend my last night in this home, I can’t
help but be a little reflective.
Three years ago, I moved to a little one bedroom apartment
across the street from my school. It was
tiny and perfect and safe. A bit of a
cocoon. When I fled there, it was a
frantic escape. No organization. No planning but a sleepless night with a
notepad and a pencil and a locked door. And
my fear.
That home came to be a place of healing. The fear hung on for a while, but eventually
it lessened. The nightmares faded. The panic attacks ceased. The tears flowed frequently. Hours of crocheting. Hours of reading about the “A” word. And healing.
By the time I got ready to move to Houston, things had
changed. I was looking forward to
beginning a new job and a new life and living lakeside with valet trash. This move wasn’t an escape; it was a rebirth. A flight home. And my freedom.
This home has come to be a place of learning. I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past
two years. I’ve learned that I’m smarter
than I thought. That I can find my way
around Houston. That being a high school
counselor is absolutely my calling. That
living near family is a precious gift. That
making mistakes is part of the journey. That
God still loves me.
Tomorrow I’m moving three miles down the road to the tiniest
apartment yet. It is teeny, old, and
completely unglamorous. But I’m
excited. This move is purposeful; to
save money for a house. The boxes are
packed and labeled.
I feel like I should pack an empty one and label
it “Hope”.
