This is Home

I find it fitting that the very last post on my blog, which I've resurrected and changed platforms, was about suspending my housing search— and here I am, nearly two years later, blabbing on about how I ultimately got one. Welcome back to The Flight of Your Life, and may you find some home here!

I remember it all very well looking back— it was the summer I passed training. I sat outside a restaurant, talking on the phone with my mom about the housing search. I’d had an epiphany the night before, after I got curious about the Seattle housing market. The plan, previously, had been to move to Missoula where my grandparents live, and where I had learned to fly. 

But something was off. After several attempts to get in the market there, it dawned on me: I romanticized the entire thing. Of course, Missoula is a great town, and Montana as a whole is beautiful.  I have no doubt that one day I will spend more time there— but where had I been happiest before?

Seattle, Washington. 

 Prior to moving home in 2019, I spent two years in the Emerald City. And I flourished. I cultivated a strong friend group and thrived in the urban environment; I’m a city girl through and through. It only made sense to return to that which felt like home— the only reason I left was because I couldn’t afford it anymore. I did some soul searching and confronted the glaring question: was I trying to relive the past, or do I truly enjoy Seattle? 

Without a doubt, it’s home. First and foremost, the weather matches my soul. I’m a cozy, soup-making, book-reading, cardigan-wearing homebody. I am not tropical in the summer, but I don’t mind the sunshine (it’s our secret weapon from May to August!). Last winter, I got all the festivities on with The Swedish Club Yule Bazaar and the Gay Men’s Chorus holiday show. Then as the weather warmed up, I bought a kayak to keep on Lake Union and took her on several camping trips this summer in the Cascades and even Olympic National Park. I kept finding reasons to stick around instead of gallivanting like I used to. 

And the journey was weird. My closest friends and family remind me that, at one point, I was considering to live in a retrofitted school bus— a “skoolie” for the uninitiated. I was all over the place in terms of what and where I wanted to be. Fast forward to meeting my realtor over the summer: we sat down at a coffee shop on Capitol Hill, and I listed out all the must-haves and pined about a wishlist, some things I didn’t even know I wanted.

The non-negotiables were straightforward: a true one bedroom condo (no loft situations or sleeping quarters with a sliding door) with a dishwasher, washer and dryer in unit, secure parking, and an outdoor space (be it a rooftop or patio). I spent the summer working and playing, keeping an eye on listings but not paying too much attention. Inventory was and is low, plus prices and interest rates seemed astronomical. I was falling into the millennial trap of a dream out of reach, despite having a good job and great credit. 

There were a couple units in a building just down the road from me, so Thomas and I went to see them. They were nice! The building itself was in great shape, and the units were updated and spacious— but there was no outdoor space to speak of, despite a locked rooftop and “balconies” off the units, which were more or less sliding glass doors with a railing. Juliette be damned. 

I sat there, a little defeated, but not discouraged. I knew this process was going to take a long time. Thomas said, “I want to show you another unit, if you want.” What the hell, why not. We walked past my apartment by a block and into an unassuming condo building. He said it was thoughtfully laid out, boasting two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Seriously? I had a come-to-Jesus with myself about wanting a two bedroom— it was on the wishlist for sure—but most two bedrooms, let alone two baths, on the market were not in the realm of possibility. 

My mom talks about walking into our house in the early 90s and knowing instantly that it was her home. I didn’t have that reaction upon walking into this unit like I thought I would, when I found *the* place. But I was wowed: sure, it was a smaller condo, yet the layout was impressive— south facing, it gets great natural lighting, but it’s up against the hill, remaining private from the alley behind. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I went back to see it a second time, and I decided with the support of good counsel, I would make an offer. 

It was listed far above my lender’s limit. And sure, there’s wiggle room, but I didn’t want to live beyond my means. I’ve seen lifestyle creep happen to people, and god forbid something catastrophic happen (been there, done that!), I want to keep a roof over my head. With my realtor’s wisdom, though, I was in good hands— the sellers were in a predicament and needed to offload this place. And if they didn’t accept? I’d keep searching, because it wasn’t meant to be. However, we only had only one back and forth, and they accepted my offer!

It has been a few months, and I’m settling in nicely. There are a few things I’d like to do to zhuzh the place up, and I still need to hang things up on the walls— but mostly, I’m content just to sit in front of my fireplace and watch the local news. I’ve turned the second bedroom into my yoga and meditation room, but the cabinet bed can quickly yield some snooze quarters for any guests who might need to stay! 

I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’m proud of this milestone. I worked hard to save up money, and I remained open to many possibilities. It just sort of fell into my lap, like most good things. But this didn’t happen alone, and I am beyond blessed to have a very supportive friend and family network to keep me in check (no school bus living for me!). My mom helped me out with part of the down payment, and she came with my aunt to put a fresh coat of paint on the place. 

For the first time in a long time, I feel exactly where I need to be: firmly planted, so I can grow.