Making a home my own after endless moves is daunting … and thrilling

on .

After living in 20 rented units over 24 years, I was suddenly a homeowner – and I allowed my emotional detachment with where I live to finally fall away

I owned my first house when I was 10 years old.

My art teacher back then taught my class about different styles of houses, and let us design and make our own out of clay. Mine was a two-story Victorian with a steep roof and a fat gothic tower, with lacy white gingerbread trim that adorned the eaves.

Looking back on all those years of keeping myself to even want to get too comfortable in any of the places I’ve lived, I realize that I always viewed them more as 'shelter' than 'home'

These creaky stairs are my stairs, I thought, these big bright windows are my windows, these new curtains were chosen because they please us

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Read full article on theguardian.com