Over winter break, I took a big leap and moved into my first off-campus apartment. I traded my old roommates, whom I call Mom and Dad, for my boyfriend and his cat, and I really couldn’t be happier with this choice. But, I still face some moments when I miss living at home, even though I was so excited to move out. It’s convenient to get to class, sorority events, and club meetings, but it’s very much not convenient when I don’t feel like cooking my own dinner or washing dishes. Right now, I’m staring at my empty plate where my dinner, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, once sat, and I’m dreading bringing it to the sink that is already overflowing with dishware.
No one tells you that independence is 10% aesthetic grocery hauls and 90% realizing you’re the only one who will take the trash out. At home, I could just plop a disgusting bowl in the dishwasher, and the fridge would appear restocked. I didn’t have to pay any mind. Here, in our little kitchen with mismatched mugs and one good frying pan, everything is my responsibility. There’s something humbling about realizing that “what’s for dinner?” is now a question directed entirely at yourself. Some nights, I daydream about a version of me who meal-preps and sautés vegetables while simmering something impressive. I’ve still yet to channel her.
I’m complaining about independence, but it hasn’t been all terrible. I absolutely adore having my own space. My boyfriend and I’s stylistic design choices don’t clash, and we’ve been able to compromise on our decorations easily. It’s fun creating something and having total control. My favorite part of the day is when we cuddle up on the couch after finishing up our homework, and the only question I have to answer is about what I want to watch tonight.
The other night, though, I went to collect my laundry from the unpromising coin operated machines in the basement (which was still damp, so, of course, I had to spend another two dollars to run it again), and I had a moment where I thought, “I want to go home.” The terrible part is, I am home now. I really can go back “home-home” anytime I want, but burning gas for twenty five minutes feels like money down the drain now that I have bills to pay. And when I say I want to go home, what I really mean is that I want my mom to cook me dinner. I want to lay in my bed with my cats. I want my hometown friends to be five minutes away at all times. I want to be a kid again, and I want someone to take care of me. Now, I have to take care of myself. Of course, you never truly appreciate it or understand the feeling until it’s gone.
I keep trying to tell myself that missing home doesn’t mean I made the wrong choice, it just means I’m growing. Growth is uncomfortable. It’s messy sinks, quick dinners, and balancing independence with nostalgia. It’s realizing I can love where I came from and still feel ready for what’s next. So yes, I’m still staring at my plate. And yes, the dishes are still waiting. But they’re my dishes now, in my apartment, in the life I chose. And even on nights when dinner is nothing fancy, and I miss my mom’s cooking, I know this: I’m building something new for myself, and that’s worth getting up to wash the plate.