post-grad anthology

Author's Note: Hello! Wow, I haven't written one of these since my Wattpad days ... lol. This post is quite lengthy, as it's a culmination of many random thoughts that I've had over the past year. I've struggled to fully encapsulate my first year of post-grad life with one anecdote, so I have decided to include every single one. I hope you enjoy x

---

The knowledge of adulthood hits me at very random times. It usually strikes when I’m walking around outside, whether it’s to work or somewhere random. I’ll gaze at the skyline or glimpse the cobblestone beneath my feet and realize that I’m a full-fledged and breathing 20-something that pays taxes and bills and calls the handyman when there’s an issue. I have a 401k and I know what that means. I somehow do not have a caffeine addiction, but I am always on the precipice. I rent an apartment. I go to work. 

I always thought adulthood would be something so dreadful and scary. I read and watched other adults gripe about life, death and taxes, and they all told me to “enjoy it now”. In my senior year of college, I was filled with anxiety about the monotonous life that awaited me. It seemed that my existence would be dwindled to nothing but three things: eat, sleep and work. 

I read Reddit threads of strangers accounting their lack of friends and relationships postgrad, and I made sure to mentally prepare myself for the inevitable loneliness. I watched TikToks that claimed that life only gets lonelier as you grow older: friends find spouses and have children, the same friends move away, everyone gets busy, and life seems to lose all of its color. 

I prepared myself for the worst. I assured myself that I would be able to weather the lonely days with my numerous hobbies. I was moving to a new city where I didn’t know a soul besides my roommates (whom I barely knew myself), and loneliness was a real possibility. 

I had nothing to lose in Boston: I didn’t know anyone in the city, and thus, there was no one to judge me if I failed. Consequently, I set out in every which way to make friends. I went on Timeless dinners with complete strangers. I befriended people at networking events. I introduced myself to the girls on the mats next to me in yoga class. I reached out to every person I knew with a slight degree of connection to Boston and begged them to match me with a potential friend. I found an Instagram account for a women’s walking club, and I dragged my roommate on one of their walks along the Esplanade. I said yes to everything, even when sometimes, that was the last thing that I wanted to do. I continuously met up with people, no matter how awkward the first time was, desperate to plant the seeds of connection. 

As a result of my efforts, post grad has been nothing like anything that I prepared myself for. My weekends are fun and filled with plans that I’ve scheduled a week in advance. I’ve met friends from all over and forged relationships that I’d deem to be as strong as the ones that I had in college. Suddenly, all the hardships from adulting seem less difficult - navigating death, taxes and relationships are much more manageable when you have other people going through the same journey with you. 

To be quite honest, post grad has felt like an extension of college. It has been quite beautiful. Every weekend invites something new, and it is a great joy and privilege to wonder what I want to do next. Sometimes, it’s just cooking a meal with a friend and watching a movie; other times it’s grabbing drinks and dinner at a place I’ve been dying to try; other times it’s home cafes, kayaking in the Charles, roaming the Nadic mall, exploring a beach town nearby, picnicking in Boston Garden, or dancing into the wee hours of the morning at Club Cafe. I wish that I could have told my senior year self that life doesn’t end in college - in fact, it feels even more colorful. 

I grew up in a quiet Midwestern town, and perhaps that’s why I find the mundane things to be so intriguing. I like my commute to work, and I like mindless grocery shopping. I like cooking my mealprep before the week and having to walk through the Boston Garden to get to my doctor’s appointment. Sometimes, I can’t believe that I live in such a big and bustling city, as my highschool mind could have never even dreamed of such a life. I didn’t even know what I wanted back then … I honestly feel like the path to where I am now has been a series of missteps, blunders and coincidences that somehow ended in the most perfect option. How grateful I am for every second of work from highschool and college - every tear, bout of anxiety, awkward networking call, privilege and rejection led me to where I am now. 

I feel like I have been riding a high from senior year that has somehow not crashed. It’s been 8 months in my new home, and every weekend still manages to feel like an adventure. Now, I’m suddenly experiencing something that I could have never foreseen - I’m tired. 

Everyone close to me knows that I live life at a brisk pace. Sometimes, I don’t even know if I can keep up with myself. I work hard during the week, but I’ll usually still be able to squeeze in a lunch, dinner, coffee run or workout class throughout. My weekends are just as busy - because I only have the weekend to see my friends, I pack my weekends to the hour. I want to make time for everyone, and I always fear that I am not making the most out of things. If I died tomorrow, would I die happy? And the like. Thus, for the past 8 months, I feel that I’ve slowly lost the ability to be alone. 

Quite a few of my plans were cancelled this past weekend, and I was suddenly left with a lot of time to kill. I tried to make the most of it like I always do - it had been a while since I had spent a lot of time with myself, and I tried to take advantage of the opportunity. I took the subway 30 minutes west to grocery shop for the week. Amidst my haul were the ingredients for steamed tilapia.

Steamed tilapia is a crowd favorite for my family in Ohio. My mom makes it best, and it took me many tries (and a couple bouts of food sickness) to figure out a recipe that even somewhat amounts to hers.

I stood a small, metal steamer grate in a pot of water; then, I turned the stove on and brought the water to a boil. I sliced the head and tail of the fish off with great effort so that it could fit in my small pot, and I boiled the leftover pieces to make fish soup. I sliced ginger and green onion and inserted it into the fish’s back and stomach; then, the fish was left to steam for 20 minutes. I made some rice and vegetables as well, and soon, dinner was served. 

I snapped a picture of the meal and sent it to my parents, then dug in. The fish was steamed perfectly, and the meat practically slid off the bone. I poured a sweet soy sauce glaze over the skin and watched an episode of Abbott Elementary as I enjoyed my meal. 

It had been a while since I had had Saturday night dinner alone. I felt as if someone was watching me. It felt unnatural. I devoured half of the fish without saying a word. 

I have always prided myself in my ability to be alone. In college, I’d drive around Atlanta aimlessly, and I’d frequently make dinner reservations for one. I’d picnic in Piedmont Park with nothing but a book. Enjoying my lonesome has always been a strength that I have taken pride in; however, instead of enjoying the sacred dinner, I felt unnerved. 

I have been so caught up with making friends and memories in my new city that I have neglected myself. My friends have been a priority and I, a forethought. Adulthood has been the most interesting phenomenon: I previously thought that I would have copious amounts of time with myself, but it is the complete opposite - I have to carve it out of my busy schedule or be blessed with a slew of cancellations for it. 

Today has been much better. I have savored my time alone, and I have warmed up to myself, as you could say. I went to a yoga class this morning. Then, I made shrimp pasta with garlic and butter. I showered and now I am at this new coffee shop that I have been wanting to try called ‘Andalas’. I ordered a delicious muffin and a strong tea - the tea is a bit too bitter for my liking. I advertised my apartment for sublet in a lot of Facebook groups and since then, I’ve just been writing. 

It’s been a really long time since I’ve had the simple pleasure of spending an afternoon in a coffee shop. I used to have so much school work to do that I would regularly get sick of certain places, and I’d have multiple coffee shops on rotation. Now, my weekends are free and usually filled to the hour. I have gradually lost the simple appreciation for killing time in a local coffee shop. 

I wonder if this weekend is just a fleeting coincidence. It’s a privilege and a gift to spend time alone and to understand yourself in such a way. How do I balance making the most of my 20s with my friends while also staying in touch with myself? If I’m not careful, I can turn into a long-lost friend with myself, where the initial meeting after months apart is a bit awkward. 

---

A couple weeks later, I decided to address my newfound discomfort with loneliness head-on: I attended a concert alone.

I first witnessed someone attending a concert alone during a Twenty One Pilots concert in 2018, and ever since then, doing so has been a lifelong dream of mine. I view it as the mecca of self acceptance: to be able to attend a concert alone means you have reached loneliness nirvana, and if you can achieve this, then you are practically unstoppable. Thus, this past winter, I bought a ticket for one to a Nessa Barrett concert.

If you are unfamiliar with Nessa Barrett, that is probably because your average screentime is below 5 hours. Nessa Barrett is a TikTok influencer-turned alt singer and resident cool emo girl - she has since shed the long brown hair and VSCO scrunchies and Brandy Melville tops for thick eyeliner, black hair, and fishnet leggings. Her stylist has to be a genius in the likes of Newton or Einstein; every concert outfit is impeccable. 

So, on a random Tuesday, I hurried home after work, smudged black eyeliner around my eyes, donned my best ‘emo’ outfit (a black top, skirt, tights, and boots), then threw back a shot of Tito’s and headed out the door. I was ready for my life to be changed, and Nessa Barrett was at the helm. 

And, honestly - you may laugh at this - my life did change. Amongst a throng of highschool girls that I did not talk to or make eye contact with (I had been hoping to make some new friends, but I realized that was impossible when the people with the underage ‘X’ crossed on their hand was in the far majority), I have never felt collective effervescence so strongly and magically. The lights were dim and everyone’s focus was trained on our Lord and Savior, Nessa Barrett, and in the pit of the Roadrunner venue in Fenway, one was stripped of all consciousness. From the hours of 8-10pm, you were no longer an adult with a job and bills and responsibilities; you were nothing but a Nessa Barrett fan, dancing to her songs and chanting every lyric back to her. 

---

Like many other 20-somethings, dating is at the forefront of our minds. The large and inescapable question, Who will I end up with? Is a plague. Even though I always end up with the realization that it is a question as to whether I end up with anyone at all, I somehow always end up at the ledge of this slide. It is a ride that I have gone down many times. 

It is embarrassing the amount of times the thought piques in the back of my mind. Maybe it will be that guy in the grocery store in the pasta aisle. Maybe it will be the cute stranger sitting across from me in the subway. Maybe it will be the person that I pass on Newbury Street that has not even glanced in my direction. I hate this question, but I love it at the same time - perhaps because it is the one thing that I cannot control. I feel that I at least have marginal control over my career and my finances and making friends, but when it comes to relationships, I feel dumbfounded every time. 

I have had short flings and things that felt ‘real’, but that is all I can speak for in my 23 years so far. I feel like the daydreams of ending up with someone are antiquated codes in my system, remnants of patriarchal upbringing that for some reason, I still cannot unplug. I accept and embrace the possibility that I may not share my life with one single person, and I may not share my life with anyone at all. I used to believe in soulmates and predestination and ‘the One,’ but now, they all feel like a capitalist trap to maintain the birth rate. 

I struggle to believe that every single person is destined to end up with a special someone. I find it hard to understand that every person needs someone. Are we brought into this world as halves of a whole? I would hope not. I guess I cannot be fully self-sufficient in the areas such as, i) opening jars, ii) killing big bugs, and iii) lifting very heavy things, but can’t a friend or a Taskrabbit fulfill such duties? Wouldn’t existence be quite sad if life only begins when our special someone arrives? 

Since graduation, it feels as if my class and I were thrown onto this race course with certain goals at certain times - marriage at 28. Kids at 30. House at 32. It’s imaginary, but it feels so real - everyone around me seems to be in the constant search of ‘the One’. There’s many Hinge dates to be discussed and sloppy conversations with hot strangers at bars to be had. I can’t say that I haven’t dabbled in either, but finding a partner has not been a priority for me for a long, long time, and this mindset feels incredibly alienating. Dating feels like a chore, a thing that 20-somethings ‘just do’, and I am always explaining myself. I really don’t know why - are we predisposed to finding a partner? Why isn’t life by oneself enough? 

I recently went through a breakup, but the amount of time I spent with this person pales in comparison to the time I spent (and now continue to spend) single and not looking, which have been some of the most beautiful and rewarding times of my life. A magical life ‘alone’ (it’s quite odd that not having a partner = being alone … don’t we have friends?) places the highest standard on any potential partner. My friends tell me that I’m ‘strong’ for not joining this race, but sometimes I wonder if it really is such an incredible feat. I appreciate their intention, but the words emphasize the divide, as if the way I live is so unnatural that it deserves praise. Is enjoying time alone really such a tall order?

I find comfort in the increasing discourse around this topic, especially from women my age. We have a choice now; we no longer have to depend on a man for survival. To be able to choose to have a partner instead of depending on one is a privilege that none of my ancestors could have imagined experiencing, and I am so grateful. And while the threat of friendships falling away into children and marriages always looms, I know that when that time comes, there will be more women with my same mentality, more than history has ever seen.

---

July 16th, 2025 

This morning I woke up to an obituary. “Rest in peace, Bryan,” the Facebook post read. “You were taken from us too soon.” At the bottom of the post, a link to the funeral home page. 

Bryan was someone that I had grown up with in Ohio. I had a crush on him in elementary school - he was so funny and charismatic, and I’d always laugh at his jokes under my breath on the bus, careful not to reveal the slightest sign of affection. In high school, I stopped seeing him around as frequently, but I was always aware of his presence, just as you would for any high school classmate. Maybe you’d see them in the hallway or after school walking to your car and briefly wonder how they were doing, but the thought would leave your mind as fast as it came, and your focus would be recentered to other things, like if you were going somewhere with your friends after school, and whether or not you have homework to do. 

I came across Bryan’s Facebook profile just a week before. I learned that he had become a welder, and that it was hard work. He reposted memes and videos about blue collar work, and I watched them in amazement, sheltered in my privileged, white collar life. I watched videos of workers with hands blackened from dirt and grease, working environments that were difficult to breathe in. He had also recently become a father, and he reposted images wondering, why did good men not get to see their children? 

I thought about life lines, and how they are supposed to be full of twists and turns but mostly long and sprawling in different directions, except that Bryan’s was snipped short. I thought that our lives are supposed to begin at 23, but I was naive to think that we all have that privilege. 

I hadn’t thought about Bryan in years, but here I was in my room, stewing on elementary memories. I wondered if I was even allowed to take up space in this mourning period, having only known Bryan’s 10 year old self, but I mourned the loss anyways. 

I feel like high school is a sick playground of sorts. In those hallways and classrooms that never seem to change, you feel as if every classmate is in a similar backdrop (though this is far from the case), and no one strays far from the median. Some people are smart, some are jocks, some are in theater, and high school is nice in that everyone fits nicely into a category because you all coexist in the same building and lead pretty similar lives - school, extracurriculars, homecoming, tests, etc.

Once you’re let loose from the halls, the differences begin to set in, and the boundaries and categorizations begin to bleed. Some people have babies, some get married, some start work, some move out, some stay. It gets to the point where you can hardly believe that you used to be classmates at all.

---

July 21st, 2025

It’s officially been a year since I moved to Boston. 

I remember this day last year crystal clearly. I had purchased a one-way flight from Columbus to Boston, and I had nothing but two large bags filled with clothes. I spent that first month subletting a room in a house in Roxbury, and I was shocked that even in what felt like the outskirts of the city, my rent was still almost twice that of my college rent. I met my new roomate’s twin tuxedo cats, and they followed me closely with their large anime eyes - slow, unblinking, curious. 

Later that day, I boarded a bus to the closest Chinese supermarket. At the time, the bus still didn’t take Apple Pay, and I had yet to acquire a CharlieCard. Tired of my excuses, the bus driver waved me on. Once I arrived, I found a grocery cart and slowly wandered through the jam-packed aisles, finding comfort in the Chinese conversations around me. The next day, I entered corporate America.

And thus, the ‘real world’ began: everyday, I follow thousands of other working professionals onto the T, where we were squeeze into the cars like mice. I disappear into a tall, cold and quiet building for the majority of the day, where I stare at two large monitors, type, and somehow manage to create an ounce of shareholder value. Once I hit my hours, I stop by the office gym before heading home or catching up with friends. After the work week, my weekends are mine to deem fit, and I fill them with fun plans and events to have something to look forward to. 

This mundane life of mine could not be more exciting to me. I like learning things at work and having weekends without homework, and I love meeting new people from all kinds of backgrounds and asking them to go on different adventures around Boston with me. I love and appreciate college for what it was, and I am so happy that I made the most of my time there, but I love my new life so much that if given the option to go back, I don’t think I could. I have grown so much in this first year out of college, and the person that I am today is so, so different from the person that was sitting at graduation approximately a year ago. I know that the person I am in a year from now will follow that same trajectory. 

It’s been a year into my postgrad life, and I feel somewhat situated; thus, I have been looking for ways to give back. 

I went to Community Day at the Fenway Victory Gardens last week. I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for, but I knew that I wanted to get involved in some way. I wandered through the thickets of gardens and zeroed in on the first people that I saw. I was lucky, and I was correct - they were all gathered for Community Day as well. I joined the group while they were in the middle of being doled instructions on how to make compost piles. 

I’m still not really sure the reason for why I was doing what I was doing, but I accepted a pitchfork and diligently started piling sticks on top of each other. The sun was strong and I was wearing Birkenstocks, which were probably the worst shoe choice that I could have come up with. I delicately shook the sticks from my pitchfork onto the top of the pile while the other volunteers threw the stick piles with strength and no abandon. I felt like a farmer, tilling the land. 

During this time, I met Wendel. Wendel had a large hat on and reflective sunglasses, so I’m still not very sure as to what he looks like. He had a funny air to him, and he liked to tell jokes in a deadpan, almost rude way, but you could tell that he cares very much deep down. He told us about his undying hatred for rabbits, as they eat anything and everything that he grows (once, he accidentally killed one by throwing a rock at it; apparently, it fell over and died in the most cartoonish way - on its back with its legs shaking in the air). Wendel told us all kinds of things that you gain from 23 years of gardening experience: lemon basil and marigold keep mosquitos away, rubbing peppermint oil on the stems of your plants keeps the rabbits away, rabbits can dig 5 inches deep so make sure you do the same when rabbit-proofing your garden, mangoes are super hard to grow because you have to plant the seed with a water soaked towel around it, and more. 

It was fascinating to talk to someone who had so much knowledge in one subject. Wendel goes to the garden every Saturday and spends his entire day there - I can only hope to find something that I am willing to devote that much time to. 

After our work was finished, he gave us a tour of his garden plot. I kind of regretted this decision because he had a 10 minute story for every plant, but it was one of the coolest things that I’ve ever experienced.

---

My first apartment in Boston was in Beacon Hill. Dreamy, cozy and surreal Beacon Hill - what a privilege! What an honor! However, upon the first day that I moved in, I immediately started counting down the days until I moved out. 

My new bedroom could be likened to a shoebox. I pushed my bed against the wall to make room for my desk right next to it. The floors were at a tilt, meaning that my desk chair was constantly rolling backwards. The walls seemed to be made out of paper mache, with the odd bumps and ridges (did they have paper mache in the 1800s)? The bathroom was the greatest offender - the fan was so loud that you could barely hear yourself think, the side of the sink was rotting away into a constant, never ending pile of mold, and the floors sunk in the middle and the worry that everything could just crack beneath you never left the back of your mind. Each nozzle in the shower head seemed to be on a different setting - aside from the high pitched screaming omitted every time you turned it on, half of the nozzle felt as if you were being stabbed by 1,000 daggers while the other half was so sparse that it felt like you were being lightly sprinkled by one of those grocery produce mists. The temperature of the water also ranged from searing hot to ice cold, and it was a constant dance in and out of that stream of water to even out the temperature. Oh, and we also had mice. 

I must thank this apartment for building me into who I am today. I have been in so much contact with our landlord and maintenance guy that it feels like second nature. I learned that if you have mice, you have to rip out the stove and fill in the holes back there, because that’s often where the mice are coming from. If you only open the shower nozzle halfway, the water pressure isn’t so painful. It was honestly great to start my new job here, because I went to the office 5 days a week to escape the place. 

I have been counting down the days, and now, I’m finally moving. For the first time, I am doing so all by myself. My family practically broke their backs helping me move into my third floor walk up in Beacon Hill, and I couldn’t imagine forcing them to go through that again. I was moving on a Tuesday when all my friends were at work, and there was no boyfriend to do all the heavy lifting either. Thus, a team of Facebook marketplace users, Taskrabbits, Uber drivers and completely random people have gotten me to where I am today. 

My new place is on the fourth floor (again with no elevator), but the stairs wind, so it’s technically eight flights of stairs, not four. I am also moving into my own place for the first time. Therefore, if I were to order, say, a couch off of Amazon, I would have to haul the monstrosity up the stairs by myself, and I’d have no roommates to help me. 

That is why I have been slowly collecting furniture off of Facebook like a kleptomaniac. My bright idea was to have all my furniture pre-bought and stored in my Beacon Hill place before the move, so the movers can haul it up the eight flights for me. I found movers off of Taskrabbit because they were cheaper than a moving company, and I engaged in “furniture arbitrage” by buying cheap pieces off Facebook marketplace and hiring someone from Taskrabbit to move it to my apartment.

I started combing through Facebook marketplace whenever I had a break during work. I searched far and wide for a couch, a dining table, a bar cart, and anything else I could think of. Collecting the items brought me to areas in Boston that I would not have explored otherwise. I picked up a rolling desk from someone in Fort Hill, and much to my surprise, there was a strong Vietnamese population there with streets of mouth-watering Vietnamese restaurants. When I went to fetch a microwave, I ended up wandering through the Fenway gardens. It was a beautiful path, surrounded by thickets of flowers in every color. 

Meeting the sellers was also a fun experience. Some only shared their Venmo username before disappearing; others liked to chat and I’d learn all kinds of things. I got a free pull out IKEA couch from a Greek couple that were post doctorates looking to move out west. I bought a bar cart from a nice girl around my age who told me she was moving in with her boyfriend for the first time (this really amazed me - I don’t think anything could ever prepare me for living with a straight man). I bought a microwave from another girl around my age and we were so close that we practically kissed while jointly shoving the thing into my Whole Foods cart (note to self: a microwave is the biggest thing you can fit in there). I bought a window AC unit from an MIT grad student that had just graduated, and I waited for my Uber awkwardly to the side as he tearfully said goodbye to his roommate who was moving back to New Zealand: “It’s been an era, mate,” he lamented as they wrapped each other in a hug (I pretended to scroll on my phone to give them some semblance of privacy). Later, I convinced my Uber driver to haul the monstrosity up to my room for another $20. During the ride, he told me that his daughter worked at MGH, went to med school at Harvard, and was now at UChicago doing her residency in dermatology. Her profile was the likes of one of those child prodigies that your mom sends you articles about over WeChat, and I was secretly thankful that his daughter and I never grew up in close proximity.

Everyone had a different reason for moving, and it was amazing to see the different stages of life that everyone was in. I felt like a baby talking to the likes of these people, and it was exciting to think that one day, maybe I would be in the same shoes as these people were once in. 

Anyways, yesterday was the Great Migration, or a 7 minute drive from my old place to my new place. I hired movers, and I set aside Gatorade and Oreos in hopes that they would forgive me for the backbreaking day. 

Since then, I have been slowly unpacking and building. Last night, I built an entire dining table and four chairs myself! And just a couple hours ago, I hauled this crazy heavy pull-out sofa with a mover up 8 flights of stairs. We really saw each other at our worst - he saw me fall flat on my ass three times, and he burst out laughing on the last occurrence. “Wow, Tom, I feel like we know each other so well now!” I joked as we finally shoved the couch into my room. Tom gave me a pity laugh in response and fled as soon as we reached my room, but I felt like Iron Man. 

I bought WiFi for the first time and plugged in the router, and suddenly, I had Internet connection. I have been trying to figure out how to connect a soundbar that I got from Facebook marketplace to my TV, and I bought this optical cable that is not working, but I will figure it out. I went down a rabbit hole on the topic of rugs recently, having found out that the cheap rugs that I would have considered have all these awful chemicals and curl at the edges, so I obnoxiously invested in this machine-wash, spill-proof and environmentally friendly rug that comes with a rug pad (I didn’t know that rug pads existed before my purchase). 

I am not religious, but last night, I sent a silent thank you to whatever Being resides in the ether. Thank you for this opportunity. Thank you for the privileges and coincidences that got me to where I am today, in my own one bed apartment in one of the most expensive cities in the US, when my father came to this country with $50 in his pocket and spent his first month on a mattress that he got from the garbage. From my grandfather who grew up eating tree bark during the Communist Revolution because there was nothing else, and from my mom who would sleep with the refrigerator open in her first apartment because there was no AC in China at the time … they would all be shocked to see where their lineage is today.

It felt weird, because here I was with my cute furniture and decorative kitchen towels, when all my ancestors needed was a bed and a roof over their heads. In my parent’s house, things are bought for utility reasons, and there is no color theme and none of the furniture matches. But now I have this blue and yellow theme going on, and I try to match the woods and the textures across the furniture pieces that I collect, and it’s a very odd feeling - it feels like an accomplishment, but it also feels like a betrayal to the simple lives that my ancestors grew up on.

Right before I went to bed last night, I surveyed my new home and felt strangely accomplished. My apartment still needed a TV stand and rug, and my bed frame had not arrived on time so I was sleeping with my mattress on the floor, but it was crazy knowing that I had done this all by myself without the help of family or roommates. These past few months have felt like an intricate chess game of sorts, where I have been carefully plotting and inching pieces forward, and finally, checkmate is near. Everything is almost complete. My plans within plans have mostly worked out, and I am so very close to calling this place home. 

I stood there and just soaked up the feeling, and my new life stared back at me.