Starting All Over Again

Ernest Hemingway said “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

So, here’s the truest thing that I know of so far: I’m a 26-year old divorcee and I moved back home to live with my parents.

Definitely not what I pictured 26-year-old me would be like.

I didn’t want to come back. I felt like I was coming home with my tail tucked between my legs, asking to be let in. I felt defeated. I moved to Canada when I was 18, determined to never come back here again. I wanted to be independent and pave my own path. I lived alone in Canada for six years. I knew no one. I started everything from scratch. I thought I was doing so well, but everything fell apart towards the end of my stay: my mental health was getting worse, I had no money or savings, student debt, a (ex)husband who turned alcoholic and manipulative — I was truly a mess. Coming back home didn’t feel good at all. I truly felt like a failure. I begrudgingly packed up everything I’ve accumulated in the past 6 years, everything I had in my tiny one-bedroom basement suite in Kitsilano. I sat on the cold floor, putting my books away in a medium Uhaul box, and thought to myself, “It’s just a few months. Just going to save up some money and leave as soon as I can. I’ll be back.”

11 months ago

I arrived at the airport in a haze. 14-hour direct flights, man. I was jetlagged as fuck. The 12-hour time difference didn’t help either. When I saw my parents at the arrivals, I felt relieved. We hugged and I remember Ma teared up a bit. Coming back home is a bittersweet feeling.

While we walked to the parking lot, and remembered how things work around here. I started sweating. God, I hate this climate.

“You’re sweating already? But it’s chilly!” said Ma.

“It’s boiling. I need to take a shower.”

“You should eat something first. Are you hungry?”

“I just want to lie down. My back hurts”

Economy seats, yo. And sat next to a fussy kid, too.

We got home. The place looks a lot older and darker. I was greeted by the dogs/three potatoes. I missed seeing my aging mutt and cranky chihuahua, and I finally met my brother’s plump pug.

I laid in my old bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. It was daytime and the sun was shining right through my window. This room was mine at one point. But that’s all. Everything in this room seemed distant to me. Maybe I was just tired from the flight. Maybe it’ll make sense later.

That was 11 months ago

The transition wasn’t easy at all. But I’m doing better than I was. Working for one of the largest ad agencies in the world, made new friends and reconnected with home. Financially-strapped, still. But at least I don’t have to worry about rent or food anymore. And mentally, I’m doing better too.

I think the reason why I feel a bit better is because I rediscovered my calling: I’m a writer. I try my best to write and practice everyday, if chores and other adult-things don’t get in the way. This isn’t a happy ending, it’s only the start of a long journey ahead. As a 26-year old divorcee who still lives with her parents, I know that the real work has just begun. Watch out, world.