Un-settling
I have no space to grow—I prune before the leaves see the light.
In September, I moved apartments.
It wasn’t a particularly large change in itself, but it coincided with—or rather, catalyzed—a lot of internal changes. A lot of self-reflection, and self-avoidance. Having been in my previous apartment for 5 very long years, this sudden change of environment completely unsettled me.
This letter doesn’t quite reach to the core of this emotional upheaval—there’s far too much to dig into there. But I gathered some of my journal entries over the last 6 months that document this transitional period. I resisted the urge to rewrite the entries—I wanted to keep them true to the moment I wrote them—so it’s not a fully cohesive piece. But I hope you find it interesting to read regardless.
I think I’m too afraid of what comes next to allow myself to imagine it. I think I hope, but I know I fear. All I can ever do is write it down.
May 2024
[reflecting on the last 5 years]
I moved into this 425 sq. ft. studio apartment in September 2019, thinking I’d only be here for a year while I figured out which city or country I’d move to next.
In the years prior, I relied heavily on “being in a new place” for a sense of self, identity, and wholeness. If I stayed in one place for too long, the cracks of my waywardness would become too apparent. My only remedy for the suffocating feeling of s t i l l n e s s was to simply go somewhere else.
Once I moved into this place, it didn’t take long for everything to change. Like, everything.
March 2020 hit, and suddenly it felt like everything I’d learned in my twenties, everything I thought I knew, was no longer relevant. Traveling was no longer a promised vice, an easy escape, a way to deal with dissatisfaction. The world was different and so was I. Who I was, what I wanted, what my future looked like—I no longer had answers. I no longer had distractions to keep me satisfied.
My depression returned quickly: I became totally empty. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a jagged image of me from 10 years earlier, pleading for clarity. I felt guilt and shame because I had nothing to show her, nothing to assure her that every terrible feeling she had would lead to something better. Any progress I had made in the previous decade dissipated, it seemed.
I did not want to start over, but…everything I thought I had was gone, and I couldn’t see anything in the future realm to replace it. I lost my ability to envision life. My imagination was the one thing I relied on through rough times, and now it wasn’t functioning. How does one move forward without an image of what might come from continuing?
Hope. Desire. Survival.
I struggled to trust that I would exist in the future—that must be why I became so drawn to Utopic ideas, futurist stories. I wanted to know what other people saw in the future, the time “after” now, whether it was good or bad. To me, the simple idea that I—that we—would continue to exist was Hope enough.
Nothing is ending. Everything continues.
I wanted to see Time as a cycle, an endless loop, rather than something to progress through, milestone after milestone.
I’m still learning. I’m still struggling to unclench my grasp of Time as something that escapes me. Let go and it will return. But now all I want is to unstick myself from this 5-year-moment of confusion. I don’t know if that means “moving forward” or if all I need to do is breathe. I don’t know where I am in the timeline, and I still feel the pressure to place myself. I wish I could say that I’ve untangled it all and come out the other side with the clarity I’ve been begging for. I wish I could see the future a little better.
But I think I’m too afraid of what comes next to allow myself to imagine it. I think I hope, but I know I fear. All I can ever do is write it down.
June 2024
I try to live the smallest life possible, believing that a more manageable life is a more perfect life. A safer life. If I can control everything in my realm, I will be fine. I live in a tiny apartment that I don’t like to leave. I don’t commit to anything further than a few weeks away. I wake up day after day, and simply get through it. I have no space to grow—I prune before the leaves see the light. I wrap around myself, knotted, and build a thicker layer of protection.
I am safe and s u f f o c a t i n g.
July 2024
[Manifesting—written before I moved, as I imagined I might feel after moving]
I hope that I can open up in this new space, and allow myself to breathe. I felt frozen in time in my previous apartment. I realized there was so much weight attached to it. It served its purpose but it was time to move on. I knew for years, really, that it was time to move elsewhere, but every year I was afraid to relinquish what was familiar to me. I may not be in a totally new place, but I was so boxed in. Now I have 12 foot ceilings and tall windows and space to move. I feel light.
I was afraid for this move. I kept telling myself I couldn’t make it work, financially or logistically. But that’s what I always tell myself: I tell myself I can’t, that I won’t survive. But I’ve only ever felt happy when I pushed myself to do something I thought I couldn’t. And this may not be anything out of the ordinary, moving to a new apartment. But every time I move my feet, it feels like I’m struggling to break free of something—it never feels as easy as it should. So I’m here now, and I’ll make it work. I’ll grow into the space I’ve given myself.
I have a bad habit of looking for the worst details, dwelling on what I don’t like in order to justify my “instincts” and fears.
September 2024 Pt. I
[first weeks in the new apartment]
I look around and get a spark of futurity—I will exist here 1 year, 2 years from now. This is home, I guess. I thought moving here would immediately feel good and right. I thought this would change everything. I thought I would feel lighter. Maybe the feeling will come.
There is so much openness here. The rooms feel grand. My furniture doesn’t nearly fill the space—pieces just sit at random intervals in a mostly-functional way. Nothing is unpacked. My books are tucked away in a pile of boxes.
I love the sound of the hardwood floors creaking beneath my feet as I patter around in the morning.
I love the way the ceiling fans circulate the air, making the rooms feel breezy and serene.
I love the way the light comes in through the tall windows, beautifully saturating the walls at certain times of the day.
I love the historic buildings of the neighborhood—no unsightly faux-luxury apartment high-rises to ruin the atmosphere.
It doesn’t feel right though. I feel raw and vulnerable, like a hermit crab without its shell—I could be crushed so easily. I’m frantically seeking out the comfort I’d usually find at home, tip-toeing into places I shouldn’t go to get my fix.
I have a bad habit of looking for the worst details, dwelling on what I don’t like in order to justify my “instincts” and fears. But perhaps I could let go of my vigilance for once, release the tension that usually holds me together. Maybe I’d be just fine without it.
September 2024 Pt. II
[existential adjustments]
I look different in the light of my new home, and I am now tasked with getting to know myself again. I do not mean this metaphorically, spiritually, internally. I mean I must, once again, figure out what I look like. What does my face look like from every single angle, in the new light of this space? How can I recognize myself in the mirror now? How do I engage with the world when I saunter like a void across the Original Hardwood Floors of this apartment?
I am a blank space in my mind, unsure if I exist; afraid to present myself in front of others to gauge my level of invisibility. Can they see? What do they see? I have become the ghost that haunts this century-old building. My IKEA orb light is a material representation of every question I’ve been asking: what is Love and could God ever exist?
October 2024
I’ve felt so unsettled the last couple of months. Too nauseous to sit alone, idly, in my new apartment. Too eager to run towards anything that calms me, temporarily. Too comfortable staying detached and distracted.
But today the air seeps in through the windows on a crisp fall day, and the room feels quiet and cool and calm. I want to let myself feel content, to accept what good is offered to me.
Taking walks and doing yoga this week has felt nice. Cleaning. Reading. Spending time alone. Going for bagels. I feel some sense of…not optimism, but of wanting to do things. Maybe I will feel joy again, soon.
November 2024
I set my phone to Do Not Disturb from 7 pm until morning. Warm light emanates from the orb lamp, air circulates above me, I sit on the couch and open a book. I am not checking my phone to see if any of them have texted me. I am not checking the mirror or taking selfies to pick apart my appearance. I am no longer awaiting the new month—I can breathe now.
Home is wherever you sleep at night, I guess. There are no promises of comfort or safety. But sometimes, when I settle and slow down, and distance myself from distractions, I’m able to feel a sense of contentedness—at least for an evening.
December 2024
[an ending/beginning]
I finally unpacked the rest of my boxes and put my decorative pieces on my shelves. I bought a new yoga mat on which to breathe and stretch. I cleaned my oven and filled my pantry with baking ingredients. I’m settling into winter at home, baking cookies and reading books during the long evenings.
I’ve come back around to being Alone—I find comfort in it again. I’m not desperate to fill my nights with unfulfilling social interactions over glasses of wine. I’m not desperate to escape this strange creaking place anymore—I can sit here with my thoughts for a little while. After 3 emotionally-chaotic months, this apartment is starting to feel a little more like home.
Finally, I think I see the future opening in front of me, instead of haunting towards me.
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