I opened the door and stared at the room that I would be living in for (at best) the next 12 months. All I could see was the glare from the early morning light pouring in from the courtyard. I had four suitcase of clothes dragging behind me– the entire remnants of my life in Pittsburgh in hand. Just 24 hours earlier, I had graduated from a prestigious university. One declaration on that piece of paper I was given, which I had held throughout the past 24 hours and nearly slept with, was something I knew that I never wanted to do again. The other, a vague step toward a career.

The room was warm. Or maybe it was just me being the sweaty mess I find myself trying to cover up all the time. (Hauling the suitcases from the car didn’t help.) “Oh, this is awesome.” My mother, who stepped forward into the room said. It was awesome. A room that I could call my own. The door swung closed behind me and clicked shut. I held the keycard in my hand, praying to God that this was truly real.

My tall square windows overlooked the courtyard and pool. I fiddled with the thermostat, walking in circles, planning what would go where and ensuring this was not fantasy. The bathroom was indeed a bathroom. The kitchen, minimalist and functional. My laundry unit existed. The microwave was there.

I know from the internet and stories my family would tell, that my first apartment would have to suck. I would learn the experience of having a shower or toilet next to my bed. This wasn’t the case. I’m the essence of gentrification in the Bay Area. I have a well paying job, that allows me to live in a beautiful place, on my own, dine out often enough and afford 200mbps internet.

I know that I’m very lucky.

Two months later, I would sit at Uno Dos Tacos with my former boss from my internship last summer. We chatted about my move-in experience. “I’m so glad to hear that your first apartment experience was the same as mine was.” He said, smiling. I thought back to the crazy day, most of it spent in an Ikea buying everything that I would need to sleep on that night. Plus a couch, coffee table, desk and chair. The basics. Right. (I can’t forget my expensive Target run for everything I’d need to actually live in that room. Thanks, Mom.)

Moving into my San Francisco apartment, I felt a weird similarity to the world I was entering when I first arrived at Carnegie Mellon, a bright eyed freshman with sincerity in my voice as I introduced myself to dozens of people. We sat in the rental car, in a massive line on Forbes Avenue as we weaved our way closer to Mudge House.

My boxes of basics was swept up to my third floor room. I stood, blinded by the bright sunlight and August heat looking at the people running around me. I climbed the flights of stairs with anticipation and excitement. Found myself in the smallest double on campus but was thrilled nonetheless.

Now, when I get home everyday from work, I stare out of my studio apartment. I watch the sun set on the courtyard below and think about how lucky I am. To have made this far and to be okay. I look back at Past Quintin and realize how stupid I was, how cocky and confident and happy to be alive. I can resonate with that last idea. Everyday I’m thrilled to have the chance to be here. In the four years between, I may have lost my confidence, my cockiness, and a little bit of my stupidity. But I’m still happy to be alive. The past four years have been difficult, school and work and distractions breaking me down and somehow forgetting to build me back up.

But I’m still here. Writing and alive. That much I can say.