Some of you may have been watching the apartment mess go down on my Instagram story. Yes, it’s been difficult. We are at Jack’s grandmother’s right now, trying to find some refuge in the chaos. Here we are, thinking we’re about to start the rest of our lives together, laughing and singing on the way to Princeton—and the universe throws us into a shitstorm.
I have a delicate sense of what the word “home” means. I didn’t like the house I lived in growing up. Then it was all tiny apartments, sublets, scattered around different cities, places I never felt were really my own. The first time I ever felt “at home” was at Harvard, specifically in my dorm, Dunster. I would even stay there over winter breaks, because it felt more like home to me than my family’s house. I have been desperately trying to return to that feeling of belonging ever since.
But what if home for me isn’t a place, but a person? That is what I have come to realize in this mess. It’s the feeling of safety when I lay my head on his chest before drifting off to sleep. It’s a glass of Tempranillo Spanish wine, and a deep conversation in a Princeton bar—one we’re not even remotely dressed up enough for—discussing topics I wouldn’t feel comfortable talking about with anyone else. It’s getting in his soccer mom SUV (sorry, honey, but it’s true) and holding his hand as we drive, not knowing where the road might take us. The road less traveled.
Home is him. Just when I think it may get to be too much, he reminds me that he won’t leave my side. I have a deep love, and a companion for life. To Jack, we’ll set down roots sooner than you think. I love you, I’m here for you, I’d be lost without you. Happy Birthday.