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I’ve moved out for the first time.

I was terrified at first. I knew about a month in advance that I was moving, but it didn’t seem real till the last week in my parents’ place. All I could think was, “This is my last Sunday* here.” (*insert day of the week, meal, event, etc.) I thought I was moving on Saturday, and then on Thursday, my roommate-to-be told me my room was ready for me and I should move in that day.

So I did.

I felt a little bad at first; I felt like I needed to have a big last night with the ‘rents, for some reason. Some ceremonial thing that would seal the deal that I’m on my own now. Kind of how graduation solidifies the fact that you’re done with school, and a funeral sets in stone (almost literally) that someone you know is dead.

I didn’t get my graduation from my parents’ house, though. Just a swift move-in and dinner at Red Robin with my new roommates.

It’s been four days since I moved in, and I’m loving it. There’s not much difference from my little basement room at my parents’ (besides the fact that I share this attic room and there’s a light outside my window and i share a bathroom with my two best friends and I buy my own groceries), but now I feel grown-up. I can’t help saying “my roommate” as often as possible. I love telling my family “I have to go home now.” I use the phrase “my parents’ house” as often as possible.

But I’m still nostalgic. I’m going to miss being a little kid, with no cares in the world. I find myself terrified to think about the next 80 years: “What am I going to do with myself?”

And so, I’ve decided to go to school. Starting in January, I will be a pre-communications major. Maybe I really am growing up.

Thank you, moving out. 

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