My definition of home has changed many times. I’ve moved 10 times in the last 12 years. Technically, I’ve lived in 9 unique locations seeing as I moved back in with my parents a time (or two). 10 times over the course of a dozen years, I’ve gathered up my possessions, thrown things in boxes, and headed elsewhere. The longest I’ve stayed in any one place is three years. The shortest was 5 months. Sometimes I relocated down the street. Other times I moved across the country. I’ve used moving services, self-storage units, and friends (sorry Jas). I’ve rented trucks, borrowed cars, and used my Ford Focus. Sometimes I’ve signed a lease, sometimes not. I’ve had 13 different roommates. Yes, I’m including my mom and dad in that. Only once did I live alone. 

Ten. Times. 

It’s startling to compare this to how other people live, how other people treat “home.” My friend, Maria, recently discovered that she’s been in her current apartment for 8 years. That blew my mind. My parents lived in our St. Louis home for 20 years. For 20 years they cooked family dinner, celebrated Christmas, entertained company, laughed together, cried together, fought together, all under the same roof. They kept their feet on the same soil for 20 years. And 16 years ago last month, my parents moved into the Atlanta home that my mom still occupies. 

It appears that I’m built differently. Apparently, I refuse to let any dust settle, ever. Every move has ushered in a new life stage, a new chapter. It’s how I can organize my past. Most of the times I relocated, I was not only moving but I was moving on, moving up. Driving to Chicago in a van full of boxes with my mom and sister was perhaps the most thrilling and terrifying thing I’d ever done in my life until that point. I was 18 and had no idea that I had no idea about the world. I was breaking from all expectations, not going on to college, and pursuing an acting career. It was the fruition of a dream, finally embarking on my “real” life. 

Shame brought me back to Atlanta a little less than a year later. By 19, life had kicked my ass, quite aggressively, a few times over. With the same van full of boxes, I made that road trip but in reverse, this time it was drastically less exciting. It was surrender, an acquiescence. I would move back home for a few months before going into the dorms at Georgia State. College, or the idea of it, wasn’t bursting with opportunity and dreamy aspirations like it does for many teenagers. College was regression. It was a step backward into safety because I wasn’t equipped for the “real” world. It was convalescence from the failed experiment of pursuing a dream. It’s a mercy that we can’t know the future because this would not be the only time I moved back home after failure. 

The dorms eventually gave way to moving back into my parents’ house. Freshman year at GSU had proven to be more social, creatively fulfilling, and growth inducing than I originally projected. I was happy, in spite of myself. It made the most sense, financially speaking, to live with my parents who were only 25 minutes from campus. This move felt much less like a failure than a year earlier. It felt like a natural progression.

Fast forward 3 years and I’m waving good-bye to my mom, a car (Gregory) full of boxes, and plenty of snacks for the road. My aunt was beside me for 4 days as we made the 2,200-mile journey west to Los Angeles. My 23-year-old heart was full of big emotions. I was eager and terrified and heart-broken and ecstatic. In my mind, I knew this was the last time I would ever live in Atlanta. I knew beyond a doubt that I was going west to start my real life, finally. There was no more stalling. I couldn’t postpone my destiny with more school or internships or distractions or safety. 

My best friend (Hi Sof) and I settled into the 2-bedroom Valley Village apartment of one of her high school friends, Jason. Much to our surprise, his roommate who was moving-out-when-we-got-therewas, in fact, a squatter-who-hadn’t-paid-rent-in-a-few-months-and-had-no-intentions-of-leaving. Our new roommate assured us that he’d take care of it and that the squatter would be out soon enough. For lack of better (or any) options, Sof and I made it work. 4 people, 2 bedrooms. We converted the dining room for Sof, complete with an air mattress and relatively sheer curtains hung up as “walls.” I occupied a corner of Jason’s room. Something about it was very L.A. Everyone took up as little space as possible, pretending it wasn’t suffocating. 6 months later, Sof and I moved into an idyllic apartment where we each got a bedroom with 4 walls and a door. We could once again breathe. 

That Magnolia apartment was filled with big joy and big sadness. We hosted parties with our friends and cried alone in our rooms at night. I had complete freedom while my life got smaller and smaller. I felt the relaxation that accompanies a southern California lifestyle while simultaneously losing grasp of the dream I once held so dear. Month by month I was becoming more and more lost. Magnolia was one of my few places of refuge. Eventually, I made the heartbreaking decision to move back home…again. As I made the solo trip back to Georgia, Gregory filled as he been 18 months earlier, it felt like I was leaving all lifelong dreams behind. I was abandoning the only vision I ever had for my life because I didn’t have what it takes. I couldn’t “cut” it. I was still a child. Being an actor was a dream that went down in flames, the ash of which choked me with every mile I drove. 

Another year in my parents’ house proved to be one of the most difficult years of my life. Even though I was back in a place of safety, comfort, and familiarity, my life had been turned completely upside down. I couldn’t find my footing. I was home but I wasn’t. This was no longer my home. It was my mom’s. I was “staying” at my mom’s. Career, day job, fulfilment, and path forward were all submerged under murky water. It took a year to find my way out of that. One could argue that I’m still finding my way out. 

After that year of darkness, I moved into Candler Park. That apartment still makes me smile. It was 500 square feet and 100% mine. It was on a quiet street in a quiet complex. There were 3 other units in my building. I was on the second floor. The A/C window units were ancient, as were most things in the building. Nevertheless, it was perfect for me. I never got it completely furnished. It was chronically messy. At one point, I had a fly invasion. But that one-bedroom apartment was where I found my footing. My acting career in Atlanta started to pick up while I lived at Candler Park. It was my first taste of post-Los Angeles adulthood. Perhaps I wasn’t a child. I found and built a new life in that apartment. The dream slowly came back to life, or at least some iteration of it. 

Two years at Candler Park and the rent hikes forced me out. Financially, I was stretched to begin with, but then the management company offered a renewal option that was unreasonable for my 3^rd year. I was at a loss. I was upset that I didn’t have more money and seemed to be trapped in this stage. I was, once again, looking to move. In a fleeting moment of lunacy, I asked my mom if I could move back home for a few months. At the time I didn’t want to think about finding an apartment or roommate. Everything felt rushed. The default of moving back home just seemed easier. I was 28 years-old and moments away from moving back in with my mom for no reason other than the fact that I simply didn’t want to look for something else.

It was an embarrassing request. I was flooded with shame. The thought of being almost-30 and living at home killed me. While out to coffee, I asked mom if I could respite for a while at her house. To my complete and utter shock, she said no. She didn’t think living together would be good for either of us. She apologized if it seemed harsh, but I needed to find another option. My jaw was on the ground. I hadn’t expected that. 

In hindsight, that was one of the best gifts my mom has ever given me (aside from the whole giving birth to me thing). I was inches away from completely retreating from life just because things got challenging. I wanted to do the easier thing and she wouldn’t let me. She knew that moving home had the potential to completely sink my ship. On my deathbed, I’ll need to thank her for that. 

I was nearing panic-mode as my lease was up at the end of that month. I didn’t have the funds to make a deposit and put in an application somewhere. To have an affordable one-bedroom inside the city was/is an anomaly, a miracle. No miracle came for me. I needed a roommate. After asking around, I found a friend who would take me in. Tina owned a loft downtown. I repeat, it was a loft. She was heartbroken after a breakup and wanted another body around for a while. We were both in a place of desperation.

The only word to describe the Lesbian Loft is ‘temporary.’ All things were transient. We knew that from the get-go. When I set up my bed in that 500-square-foot loft with no walls, I knew I couldn’t stay long. There was no space and no privacy. How did I end up living in such tight quarters with a loose acquaintance from the gym? How did I end up in these situations? Everything I owned stayed in boxes surrounding my bed. I never bothered with makeshift walls or curtains. Perhaps, subconsciously, I was punishing myself. I was making an uncomfortable situation even more uncomfortable. My inability to get my life together meant I deserved to be exposed and unhappy. 

I remember the irony of writing this happy Christmas post in such an unhappy state.

I lasted 5 months in the loft which I consider to be a feat of strength and willpower. Tina and I managed as best we could, but we were both relieved when I left. She started up a new relationship and it would be an understatement to say I was an inconvenience. However, I’m grateful for those 5 months of shelter. In the great cosmic universe, I needed her, and she needed me. Thus, we found each other. 

Enter the Kirkwood apartment. My roommate and I would eventually dub it The Oasis. In spite of it being former public housing and currently run by a shady landlady, The Oasis was bright, spacious, and peaceful. Kelly moved in a month earlier but wanted a roommate. We had a few mutual friends including my friend Jessica who lived two units over. Waves of relief hit me as I unpacked my boxes into my own room. Once again, I had a door and 4 walls. I had a space I could claim.

Kelly and I got along quite well. We’d have long conversations about acting and relationships and life. We made each other laugh. At the end of the day, though, we were two adults in their 30’s trying to cohabitate. Things I’m sure we could have tolerated in our younger days became grating. Nevertheless, we made it work. I still consider her a good friend. 

One day she told me that she was moving to Los Angeles. Her career in Atlanta had picked up and being in California made the most sense. I really didn’t want to move again or give up The Oasis. After talking with shady landlord, we agreed that I could take over the lease. It still wasn’t affordable enough for me to live alone. Thus began another roommate search. 

The day after Kelly moved out, my new roommate moved in. I won’t go into too much detail, but this situation did not work. The Oasis was no longer a safe space. The brightness quickly left. I would spend a lot of time in my car, parked outside the apartment, just delaying going in. In a short period of time, my living situation was flooded with sadness. Two months after she moved in, the new roommate moved out. The Oasis needed sage and I needed wine. 

I debated what to do next. After spending 8 painful weeks with another person, all I wanted was to be alone, but I couldn’t afford The Oasis by myself for long. I gave it 3 months. I knew I could manage for 3 months. The walls were bare. There was hardly any furniture. The sparse living condition became a type of cleansing, a reset. For three months, I lived in simplicity. 

Enter The Chateau. My friend Emily (Hi Emily!) is that rare breed of 20-something who has her life together and the means to buy her first house. Her parents (Hi John and Julie!) helped her renovate a quaint 2 bedroom/2 bath on a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood. Emily claims to have bought it with the intention of having a roommate, though I suspect my pitiful living situation persuaded her a little in asking if I wanted to move in. Over the course of 48 hours, I hired movers and brought my few possessions from The Oasis to The Chateau. 

That was 6 weeks ago and every moment in The Chateau has been dreamy. My home is now bright, fresh, clean, and filled with life. We have plants and dogs. Technically, Emily has plants and dogs. I have one succulent I’m desperately trying to keep alive. Our friends come over often for food and drink and to watch terrible movies. We’ve already hosted two parties which is more parties than I’ve hosted in the last 6 years. I’ve yet to have a bad night of sleep in The Chateau. Maybe it’s just the honeymoon phase, but this is the happiest my living situation has been since Sof and I lived in Magnolia.

So what’s to be learned from all this moving and upheaval and roommates and resettling? Are there lessons to be found in the way I’ve been something of a rolling stone? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I’m just designed differently from some people. Perhaps staying in motion keeps my creativity churned up. Maybe all the moving of my 20’s will lead to some miraculous revelation later on. Perhaps it’s just life. 

I could look back at my extensive CV of apartments and feel like a failure. Some days I do just that. It’s easy to berate myself for always being broke, making silly choices, and imposing on others. I can gut-punch myself for my lack of independence. In my darker days, I feel like a leach, a parasite, unable to survive without the help of a real grown-up. 

That spiral continues downward into my career. The quality, or lack thereof, of my living situation is so closely tied to how I view myself as an actor. Moving to Chicago and then coming back to Atlanta was a devastating blow to that dream. Years later, my failure in Los Angeles reopened those wounds, deepening them. Maybe the vision of being a full-time, professional actor includes having a beautiful home to myself. Maybe that was a piece of the vision I never consciously knew was there. Failing at acting and failing at housing seem to be connected. 

Shame. Failure. Dependency. 

At least, that’s one way to look at it. 

Maybe I should reframe it. Maybe it should be, “thank goodness people showed up in my life when I needed them.” Instead of chastising myself for not being where I want, I could sit in a place of gratitude. I’ve never been homeless. My living situation has never truly been unsafe. There are people in Atlanta, in this country, all over the world, who don’t know where they’ll sleep from one night to the next. For a percentage of humanity, home is a place of fear. I’ve never been in that position. My network has always caught me. I have a feeling they always will. 

As for the career-housing connection, it may be best to separate the two. I suspect that will take some time though. In the meantime, I could simply reframe it. Over these years, I’ve experienced so many places and people on a deep level. I’ve had highs and lows. Moving around has been an adventure, for better or worse. Deep down I know none of it is wasted. All my experiences, the apartments, the roommates, the decisions, will be used. I’m a better storyteller because of them. I actually have stories to tell because of those things. I can be a better actor and writer because of my chronic moving, not in spite of it. After all, rolling stones are supposed to be cool, right? 

Check out this week’s photo contributors:

Deva Darshan

Adonyi Gabor

Asad Photo

Johannes Plenio

Johannes Rapprich

Bruce Reyes-Chow