I remember our first night in our apartment.
4 years ago.
It felt like a castle compared to our previous 1-bedroom.
We initially felt unworthy of a working dishwasher, let alone a dedicated office and meditation room.
We felt like two kids who got left in the mall after closing and had free reign.
And in many ways, we were.
In the “giddy” stage of a passionate (but maturing) relationship.
Fortunate enough to be running businesses we cared deeply about.
Supported by amazing friends and family.
Yet with far more to learn about life, healing, and growth than we could ever fathom.
We’d proceed to spend almost half a decade in this place.
Nearly 1,500 nights.
More than half of them, unbeknownst to us at the time, would be shared with a little one.
And man, these walls have held a lot.
They have crayon marks.
Our child was born between them.
While countless versions of self perished.
There’s been hope and heartbreak.
Expansion and collapse.
Anguish and ecstasy.
Death and rebirth.
It’s been all inclusive.
And the tears….
Oh, the tears.
There’s something humbling and illuminating about seeing your stuff in boxes.
Destined for a storage locker.
It leaves you bare boned and open hearted.
Not a single possession left to hide behind.
You walk out with only a trunk full of essentials, and your loved ones by your side.
Watching the spectors of selves past fade to black with the final flick of a light switch.
We had initially planned a ceremonious goodbye.
Box of pizza. Burning sage. Bows of gratitude.
But alas, urban shamanism doesn’t come easy with a moving truck in your driveway and a toddler in tow.
So through tears and laughter, I turn to Sue…
“We lived the shit out of this place”.
And together, we agree…
That’ll have to do.
We walked in a couple.
We walk out a family.
Thank you, 5408 D******