Leaving Home

It’s a classic right of passage the cliched flying of the nest, for some it’s a big deal and for some of us who wanted it to be a big deal it didn’t really change anything except our address. Yes, I was at university but not a prestigious one, and yes I was studying for a degree but not one that meant anything outside my own interests. All in all rather anti-climactic I’d say.

That day in mid September the sun was still warm though autumn was starting to turn the leaves, there wasn’t much in the way of chatting just the mild focus of packing up the car. Well, cars plural. It took two three door hatchbacks to move all my possessions into university halls. I think Mum was trying not to think about it, the youngest of her children was about to officially join the new generation of independent adults. Being the youngest of three by almost a decade meant I already had a severe degree of independence, but despite that when at school I never really thought much about the future and so never really had a plan to leave. It wasn’t until I got what I wanted, acceptance into my hometown’s prestigious art school, that I realised I wanted to leave though it would be another three years before I did.

I’ve tried to imagine how my mother felt helping me move into the tiny room before finally saying goodbye, at least until the phone call a few hours later. Her youngest child moving over 100 miles away from home, I remember her tearing up as she hugged me goodbye. It was hard to judge if she were happy or sad perhaps a mixture of both, I don’t remember what was said but in the moment mum and I had an understanding. I’d decided what was best for me and she was proud.

In the end leaving home is as easy or difficult as we make it, I suppose it depends how much you love home wherever that may be. For me it was easy the hardest part was moving back home after the three year escape.