I always thought I'd live in a big city. I'd fashioned myself as Sarah Jessica Parker, running around the city in heels while pushing a stroller of adorable kids. I imagined the townhome I'd live in. You'd open up the red front door, step inside onto the gleaming wooden floors and look at the expanse of open space and industrial details. Weeknights we'd take a family stroll along the river, or we'd just open our windows to listen to the street bands performing. Our lives would be filled to the brim with activities for both the children and my husband and I. We wouldn't have much of a yard, but the city would be our playground.
But sometimes when you're looking to put down roots, you don't realize that you're already standing on the ground they belong in.
On November 1st, my husband and I are closing on our first house.
And we're not doing it in a big city. We're living in a small city an hour outside Pittsburgh, with no river, no street bands, and not a lot of activities. But somehow, this is the place that has come to feel like home.
I've been craving roots for the longest time. I've always been someone who moves, who never really stays in one place. But suddenly, the rumbling deep down was becoming louder. It was shaking and screaming and pleading for some place to settle down. And so that's what we did. We decided that if we could see ourselves living here for another five years, we'd go for it and buy our first home. And that's what we set out to do. And we found the perfect little starter home within two months. And it'll be ours in less than a month.
Here's to the next chapter having some roots.