New Home, Who Dis?
This post was written between January 2nd and January 21st.
Maturing is realizing the quirky experience of sleeping on the floor the first night in your new apartment is strictly for the movies. My back hurts, I left my bonnet at the old place, and we are sharing a roll of tissue for all 3 bathrooms, but I got the first night out of the way. That’s what was most important–I wanted to solidify my presence here. After a handful of walkthroughs, living room prayers, contemplation, and planning, I’m finally here.
It’s January 2026, and I have big plans for the upcoming year. Nothing too specific or gaudy, but it all aligns with releasing and moving forward. I want this year to be transforming, so I have to take risks. That apparently includes getting a new condo on the outskirts of Nashville that’s 500+ more square feet than my old place. It’s a big responsibility, but am I not responsible? Am I not deserving? Am I not capable of upgrading my life and caring for the new blessings I receive?
It’s 3 AM on January 2nd, and I find myself in my new bedroom, sitting on a makeshift bed of pillows and stacked blankets on the floor, thanking God for this opportunity.
I’m a little scared to admit this, but my last apartment had too much baggage. In the 3.5 years I’ve lived there, that apartment has endured 2 official relationships, a flooding, an electric failure, a terrible drug-selling neighbor, a messy neighbor who housed a roach colony, and a mold infestation. It was cramped and tiny, with an unprofessional leasing office and a community of stray animals and unsupervised kids. I definitely made do with what I had, but I knew–for a long time, actually–that I deserved better.
But like most of the spaces I come from, I don’t regret my time there. I don’t resent the fact that I lived somewhere I couldn’t invite guests. Buena Vista was my home, and it was a step up from my last place, my first apartment in Nashville. Most people don’t know this, but I became homeless when my daughter Zayna was about a week old. After a long pregnancy of sleeping on a spare couch in my mom’s home, I found myself without a place to lay my head and care for my baby. Zayna was too young for the local shelter, so with the help of my grandma, I emptied my savings to stay at an Extended Stay for two months. When Zayna met the age requirement, we split our living space between my car (Sierra, the Chrysler Sebring, I’ll never forget you) and the shelter. It was a tough time. I was working 40+ hours to save up money to get the heck out of there, and barely had time to see, let alone breastfeed, my baby. Not to mention, the family shelter wouldn’t allow me to store my breastmilk, so I was practically forced to start formula for Z because of it. All that to say, when an apartment reached out saying I was approved for move-in, I jumped at the first opportunity.
So there I was.
My very first apartment here in Nashville was a Section 8 property that Tennessee natives called Dellway, where most of the residents were not legally working and were avoiding paying rent. It was a really careless place, and the leasing office and residents let me know from the moment I started living there. It was a tiny 3-bedroom with limited space and a plethora of issues, but as I mentioned before, it was home. I won’t get into what I had to endure there, but I made the most of it like always. As I said, it was my first apartment. It was my first real step toward adult independence in a new state, even if my rent was just $32 for the first year. I was dirt poor with a baby I didn’t really know how to care for. I had limited means and limited resources.
When I moved from that place, I felt like I was being delivered from an impending demise. I still reminisce about my experiences there when I drive past the area. Apartment number 2 (Buena Vista) was certainly an upgrade, but still had its challenges. I told myself each step was a step forward, and I knew I’d get something better one day. In this new apartment, a privately-owned 2BR/3BA condo near the airport, it feels like I’ve made another step. Let Zayna tell you, she wants us in a house, but she doesn’t understand that these things take time, patience, and build-up. Maybe one day I’ll be closing on a home I can call my own, but right now, this new condo feels like the breath of fresh air my lungs needed.
It’s almost surreal realizing that this is my third apartment, my BEST apartment in fact, that the lease is in my name, and I can curate my own space again, this time with a blank canvas. This is what preteen me always imagined when one of my sisters hogged the bathroom, or the house was too noisy for my liking. I am grateful to create these environments for my daughter so she may have a childhood worthy of remembering.
When I first started this post, I was sleeping on the floor of an empty apartment whose smell and atmosphere were unfamiliar. As I finish this post weeks later, I am sitting in a furnished living room with an office space, a rug on the floor, and no totes cramping the space. I am officially 90% unpacked, with the remaining 10% in one lingering tote and paintings that need to be hung. As I write this, my daughter is playing in her pink and fluffy bedroom, preparing to take a shower before bed. I will soon retreat to my spacious bedroom to watch my favorite show.