Hi! So, I know it’s a new year and all, but I’m still processing 2022, and part of how I do that is through writing. So, here we are. This is an ode to my old apartment that’s been a long time coming!

Last year I realized just how much spaces can become a part of you—and also support or hinder your growth. At the end of July, I moved out of my apartment of five years. It was my first solo place in L.A—a small, partitioned studio in a plain 1920s building with no a/c, plenty of sunlight, and charm in spades. Meaning drawers lined in vintage floral paper and cabinet doors that didn’t close all the way. I was immediately sold on the huge built-in bookshelf and open hallway closet. What the place lacked in square footage, it made up for in designated spaces for the important things: my books and clothes. Also, proximity to secret stairways, steep hills, and quiet residential streets, which I could probably write an entire blog post about alone, but for now I’ll just say, I LOVE WALKING. The apartment quickly became my haven from L.A. when L.A. was too much (or not enough), and for dancing it out to Robyn at all hours. I lived the second half of my twenties there.

For a while the studio was a perfect fit. I would wake up giddy because it felt like a dream—to have a place of my own and be surrounded by all my favorite things. Change happened, but I always made it work. When I went freelance, I put a desk in my kitchen and it actually felt like a mini office, even though I was convinced that everyone on Zoom could hear the insanely loud buzz of the fridge. To clear my head and feel like I was part of the world again, I went for long walks and hikes in the neighborhood. When the pandemic hit and we were confined to our homes, I pushed furniture around in my living room slash bedroom to take Ryan Heffington’s Sweat Fest class on Instagram every week. Not exactly ideal but worth it (seriously, try doing his signature “used car lot inflatable” move and NOT cracking up). Somehow I never got a noise complaint.

I think I prided myself on being flexible, but at some point I started getting really tired of always making it work. Squeezing my life into a small room or apartment and sacrificing extra breathing room or peace for a prime location. It was probably around the same time I noticed a huge crack in the bathroom ceiling. Then more cracks. A window that wouldn’t stay open. Termites. Constant construction in the apartments next to and below me. Unresolved maintenance requests. Blah blah blah.

It felt like the place was caving in on me and I craved S P A C E like cold water. In July. In an apartment with no a/c. So, I put all my stuff in storage, moved out, and became kind of a nomad, all in the name of expansion. (Btw the word “nomad” is so cringe to me. Can we think of a new one? Flying onion? Idk.) Living month to month has had its ups and downs, mostly ups, and a lot of times I feel like a sponge. Sometimes floating. I miss some things about having a more permanent place and definitely don’t miss others. It’s made me think a lot about the concept of home and the feeling of home. Also uncertainty. But more on that later.

Before I moved out, I asked my photographer friend Sunny to help me commemorate my apartment and everything I loved about it by taking some photos of me in the space. We obviously had a lot of fun, but it also solidified just how much that place and time in my life had shaped me, even if it didn’t quite fit anymore. (Growth is cooooool.)

Highly recommend doing this for any kind of milestone (photoshoots aren’t just for weddings lol).

✌️

Photos by Sunny Strader