Every house has a unique smell that is said to be unrecognizable until you’re away for a period of time. Despite the constant comments from friends and visitors about the smell of my childhood home, I couldn’t have described it to you until I moved away from home.
As the oldest of three sisters who grew up with two nurturing parents and involved grandparents nearby, my home and family mean everything to me. My family has always been my rock: from attending my first Pride parade with me when I came out as queer in high school to having my entire family drive six hours each way to move me in when I went to college.
So, when it came time for me to pursue my long-sought-after goal of moving to New York City, I knew I would have my family’s support, but it wouldn’t make leaving any easier.
When I moved out, I started a new chapter of my life
I come from a long line of ambitious and driven people, so even as a kid, there was never any doubt in my mind that I would move to New York at the first chance I could. Following in my parents’ footsteps, who also met and started their life together in the city, all of my childhood birthday trips and summers in college spent working in Brooklyn led up to the moment I finally got offered my dream job as a sex educator in New York.
I knew nothing was going to get in between me and my dream, and yet the reality sank in that moving would change what my immediate sense of family would look like. Although visiting my family was only a short drive away, I didn’t know what it would feel like to miss out on family walks with my dog, the never-ending late-night talks with my sisters, or the now identifiable oaky cinnamon smell of my house every day.
While I wasn’t sure what lay in store for this new period of my life, when my best friends from college, Elliot and Ike, found an apartment just a walk from my own, I started to see the pieces come together.
My house became a home
In the early months of my relocation to New York, I was finding my footing within the community and among friends. Despite Elliot and me living objectively close by, it was different from our shared walls in college. Nonetheless, we quickly ritualized our ocean documentary watch parties and park picnics, but this time in a new setting.
Everything changed again when I met my now girlfriend. We moved in together, still close to my best friends, and I felt my own family growing before my eyes. Suddenly, the familiar sounds of living with my family started to take shape, but in a new tune: the jingle of her keys walking up to the door after a day of work, the pitter-patter of our cats running around the apartment, the rattle of the wind against our windows in the winter.
I had found my home, and thought things couldn’t get any better.
My sister and best friend then became my neighbors
After some time nesting in my beautiful apartment with my girlfriend, two apartments in my complex became miraculously available. It was somehow perfectly aligned with my best friends searching for a new apartment and my sister and her partner moving in together. Within a three-month window, I no longer had to wait for holidays and hometown visits to have family dinners or game nights; I had my own queer family in New York.
My move taught me that family can grow wherever you are, and mine happened to be right next door. Now, I feel the small day-to-day intimacies of living with family restored when my weekly grocery shop becomes a sisterly activity or when I can stay in my pajamas to borrow a baking sheet from my best friend.
While I know this living situation might not last forever, there is something even more special and grounding in its impermanence. Just as I once moved away from home, it’s possible that one day my best friend, my sister, or even I will embark on a journey that leads us elsewhere. But if that happens, I will always remember the smell of vanilla in my best friend’s apartment or the herbal scent of my sister’s studio and think of my neighbors, friends, and family.
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