Life of Leaving Home

When we were younger, my siblings and I would occasionally sleep over at our grandmother’s house in Brooklyn. She was our designated babysitter when my parents went out of town or had events to go to when they wouldn’t be home until late. My sister and I slept in our mother’s old bedroom and my brother slept in our uncle’s bedroom. My mom’s bedroom had two big windows overlooking busy Quentin Road, which had traffic on it at all hours of the night. Late at night when we’d be drifting off to sleep, we’d hear the cars and trucks go by. To this day, the whooshing sound of cars driving past brings comfort and reminds me of spending time at my grandmother’s house.

Although my new building is not directly on a main road, it is directly off of one. At night, I hear the rush of cars going by. There aren’t nearly as many cars as there were in Brooklyn, but leave it to the girl from New York City to be oddly comforted by the sound of a moving vehicle.

After finally finishing unpacking, going grocery shopping and decorating, I’m pretty much settled in to my new place. Two months ago, I couldn’t believe what I was doing, merely because I knew my decision would alter the course of my life. And after spending about 24 hours at home, I couldn’t be happier that I no longer live there.

I have been reading an old textbook – actually more of a handbook – from college, studying and refreshing my memory for my new job. After spending a long time contemplating different career paths in the big city and debating whether I wanted a place of my own in the city or not, it’s so refreshing and surreal that I’m beginning my career doing what I love in a place away from where I grew up, and leading to the future I’ve always dreamed of.

“I am awake and alive. There is something calling me. More than a moment in time, it’s a life of leaving home.”

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