own owned a little house in Adelaide. I bought it when I turned 25 years old, and it was one of the proudest moments of my life.
Sadly, due to the big move, I had to sell it.
It was the perfect home for me. Natural light flooded every room, I woke up every morning to the sound of kids playing in the park that my bedroom overlooked, and the purple walls which I once found gross, seriously grew on me (to the point of refusing to paint over them).
But best of all, it allowed me to live alone, during a time in my life when I was really figuring out who I was. I learnt how to really enjoy my own company, which meant learning to love eating dinner alone, watching
documentaries the bachelorette alone, and occasionally having the odd chat to myself (it was more than occasionally).
It was a difficult adjustment, and it wasn’t always easy. For example, I never learnt to cook, so most nights consisted of a bag of honey soy chicken chips, a glass (or four) of wine, and some streamed broccoli (because balance). But, with the exception of my overall physical health, I had never felt so happy and content.
I guess that is why selling has been so hard.
Although I feel a little like Bart did after he sold his soul to Milhouse, I’ve come to realise that maybe that is ok. Maybe I can sit with the discomfort of it, whilst also being seriously excited for what is to come. I’m thinking it will make me appreciate of the great times ahead a little more. Because hey, what is good without the bad?