Growing up, when I imagined my 20s, I pictured living in a huge city apartment on my own, with a partner or a quirky group of roommates. I’d decorate my home with chic art pieces, paint the walls a dusty rose, and host dinner parties for my friends.
I was desperate to begin my life. I thought adulthood started when you moved out; anything else felt like going backward.
Then, my dad died, and my entire reality shifted.
Living with family as an adult is often framed as a “failure to launch,” but navigating grief at home with my mom and younger sister helped me rethink growth.
Living at home in my 20s wasn’t easy at first
After I finished college at 22, I moved in with my parents while I figured out what my long-term plan would be.
I hoped this would be a very brief stint. Impatient to be more “independent” and worried I was falling behind my peers, I vowed to rent an apartment with my boyfriend as soon as we could afford one.
Before I had a chance to move out, though, the COVID-19 pandemic pushed us into a lockdown. I settled back into living with my family until further notice. There were practical benefits, such as saving money, but I still felt restless.
In ways, I reverted back to a teenager: whispering on FaceTime, sending messages on Snapchat, even sneaking out of my window to meet up with my partner after everyone had gone to sleep. At 22, I felt emotionally crowded and missed the freedom I’d experienced at college.
More than a loss of privacy, though, I was ashamed that I was still “waiting” to reach what I saw as the first big marker of adulthood.
After my dad died, living together became a lifeline
Four years after I moved back home, my dad suddenly passed away.
We couldn’t properly say goodbye. Instead, we sat in fear for months. His chair was empty, leaving a hole in our home.
As guilty as I felt for not always appreciating the years I’d spent with him, I realized how lucky I was to have gotten to spend his last few years at home with him.
Many fathers who get to grow old may never spend as much time with their children as I did with mine, precisely because I stayed home.
My dad had moved out of his house at a young age and lived in four countries. In one of our last one-on-one conversations, shortly before he was admitted into the hospital, he told me how everyone keeps moving to find their place, but everywhere is virtually the same. The main difference is the people that you’re leaving behind.
Looking back, those extra years at home were convenient, yes, but they were also the happiest I’ve ever been. Now, having my mom and sister by my side gives us space to grieve together and mutually support each other.
Memories and rituals reshaped how I define adulthood
As a very tight-knit family, we built our life around traditions, from holidays and vacations to sports and movie nights.
My dad’s favorite activity was spending time with us. He taught us skills like skiing, languages, and playing tennis.
Healing came from returning to the traditions he loved. Although it was challenging at first, we forced ourselves to engage with his hobbies and rituals, reliving our memories together. We cooked his favorite food, sang songs he loved, and played lots of tennis.
With time, the sadness became more tolerable as we created new rituals while preserving treasured old ones.
This wasn’t the “20-something” life I had envisioned, but this version of home became a symbol of my growth precisely because of how much I loved my past. I realized that living at home at 27 isn’t a lack of maturity or a so-called “failure to launch.”
If anything, grief sharpened my sense of responsibility. Adulthood can be communal, and I feel lucky to have familial support. Grief has made living with my family more meaningful, grounding, and empowering than ever.
Read the full article here
