I’ve been in a viscous cycle of financially recovering from moving for the past two decades
I moved out of my parent’s house just shy of turning 19. In the 20 years that followed I moved 22 more times.
That’s 23 moves in 20 years.
It’s a wild mix of living with friends, their family, boyfriends, and once a while having a place of my own. I’ve never lived anywhere longer than a year, but I also never wanted to. Sometimes it was for obvious reasons, like when I shared a studio in a seedy part of town with my friend’s sister and her boyfriend. Other times it was more subconscious, like living with a partner I couldn’t see myself being with long term. Whatever the reason, I never bothered settling in. There was no point.
Each move meant losing money (and stuff). In the early years that didn’t bother me much. As far as I could tell, being broke didn’t hurt my social life, and growing up with hoarders meant loving the “less is more” aesthetic anyway. I successfully romanticized my way out of being disappointed by my life. It wasn’t sad to sleep on an air mattress, it was a rite-of-passage. In more recent years, the deposits, moving costs, repeatedly buying furniture and homegoods, low paying fellowships, and at one point no job at all, meant a decent chunk of credit card debt and nothing to show for it.
My latest move was just two months ago. It’s the first place I’ve ever lived in that’s been my home. It’s in the neighborhood of my dreams. My friends are just blocks away. There’s always something going on, but I can hide out in my cottage if I’m not in the mood for it.
I also make an honest living at a job I don’t hate with coworkers I really like.
In two years I can be debt free and have a decent safety net. All I have to do now is settle in.