I grew up in a four-room, 800-square-foot farmhouse in a small town in Northern California. My parents gave my sister and me the master bedroom, which meant an additional forty square feet of luxury. We had bunk beds most of our lives. As the eldest, I claimed the top bunk until high school, when I decided I was too old to climb a ladder to bed; by then, my sister was ready for the penthouse view. We lived like this, our things intertwined in a mass of posters and stuffed animals, piles of laundry and 90s memorabilia; my only true solitude came perched atop the apple tree smack dab in the middle of our half-acre lot.
While I loved our home, I was excited to move out of my small hometown into the brave world on my own. While moving to San Francisco itself offered breathing room, I quickly discovered that my $400 housing stipend could only afford me a shared room in a tiny apartment. So with with housemates and a revolving cast of guests: couch crashers, one-night stands, the friend who lived with his parents and was always around, I navigated another shared space; less toys, more laundry and secret knocks or magnets left on doors to indicate a need for privacy. The boundaries of space both blurred and familiar.
I did spend one fall living out of the trunk of my 1986 Volvo station wagon which provided more space than I imagined. I could breathe in a way that was akin to those afternoons spent atop my backyard apple tree, swinging in the branches, seven years old, sun on face, wind in my hair and the world to myself. I drove up and down California highways working as a naturalist and outdoor guide in some of the most beautiful places on this planet. Sometimes I had passengers, but more often it was just me, windows down because there was no AC and radio up to overpower the noise of the wind and the rattling suspension.
But I quickly tired of dirty clothes and moldy smelling upholstery. I longed for a bed and kitchen and a room with a roof and four walls to ground myself. So when my boyfriend invited me to come stay with him for a bit, I unpacked the Volvo and never left. Our lives and bodies and boxes mingling indefinitely. I married a few years later, at just 24 years old, and shared various one-bedroom apartments with my new husband around the Bay until we bought our first home, a 2000-square-foot craftsman in Oakland, double if not triple the size of any space I’d lived in before.
I thought having this home would give me the room I always thought I needed, but, to my surprise, I found the amount of space intimidating. Of course, sharing my space with my children was different than any roommates I’ve had before. They filled my heart and home and permeated every corner of my world. It was hard to tell where I ended and they began, our beings overlapping in every way. While this brought comfort in many ways, at some point the 2000 square feet started to feel claustrophobic and I would often dream of a room of my own. Just a corner that was mine. A space to be me without any of the expectations of roles and responsibilities I’d been playing. Perhaps a treehouse. Perhaps in an apple tree.
So when after 17 years together, this boy and I split, and I faced the realities of divorce head-on, I found solace in the dream of having my own place for the first time in my life. Sadly, this dream still felt out of reach, with Bay Area housing prices and uncertainty of what this next phase of life would look like. For a time, we worked out a shared living arrangement, switching days we were on with the kids, each taking a corner of our home as our own.
There was a security to living all together. Like when we found ourselves all cuddled on the couch for a Friday night movie. It was so safe and comforting. Safe like the way my sister’s soft snoring lulled me to sleep. Comforting in the way that I knew if I didn’t come home or was too drunk to stand my roommate would be there. A way that no matter how alone I felt in my marriage, I was never actually alone in my bed. I knew my relationship was over. I knew I needed to blow up the conventionality of the life I’d created and find sovereignty in myself. But I was terrified of losing my family. This juxtaposition so eerily familiar between needing space and independence and the profound fear of being alone. I was terrified that I would get lost out in the world without a tether to tie me to home.
I always thought that when you’re on the precipice of a big change, there would be one single moment of faith, right before you make that big leap into the unknown. For me, however, it hasn’t been one big leap, but rather a million tiny steps. And maybe that is the reality of life. Daily decisions to say yes, yes to things that bring me closer to myself. Yes to things that keep me moving forward even though I have no idea exactly what I’m moving towards. This is why, at 38 years old, when I was offered the keys to a friend’s subleased apartment, I crumbled in tears on an Oakland sidewalk, knowing I would truly have my own room for once in my life. And while it’s arguably the most selfish thing I’ve ever done, saying yes is the kindest, most generous gift I’ve ever given myself.
The gift of an apartment that is all mine. One bedroom with a claw-foot tub and big windows that let the golden hour light dance on the floor. In the month and a half before I moved in, I obsessed over my decision. How do I prepare for a transformation like this? What did I need to be strong enough on my own? What would be unpacked, beyond my favorite books and beloved houseplants?
The answers have been surprising. It’s just me. Me in my flaws. In my human-ness. As I’ve sat in that bathtub, tears streaming down my face, or laid my body in the evening light trying to capture her magic, I’ve found courage. In those moments at 4:00AM when terror about my capabilities, my worth, my failed relationships mean sleep eludes me or the quiet foggy morning, tea in hand when I can write from a place I haven’t had access before, I find grace. And when I realize how terribly I miss my kids on the days I’m not with them and how luxurious and guilt-filled it feels to have so much time to myself, I find forgiveness.
I know I’ll outgrow this space in no time. I dream of a front stoop and a table where I can gather my people for Sunday dinners. But this tiny little flat has proved to be exactly what I needed. Room. Found in my childhood apple tree and the floorboards of a foggy San Francisco flat. In the open road of Highway 1 and curled on the couch in a pile of legs and arms and love for a Friday movie night. Found in apartment #4 of a salmon pink craftsman on East 21st Street. Room for me.
