It was five years into my marriage and less than a year into parenthood when I asked my mom if I could move back home with my baby. She thought I was joking and chalked it up to a rough adjustment to new motherhood, assuming we’d figure things out with more time. But she said yes, and about eight months later, we moved in.
Given the circumstances and how quickly everything happened, I focused on utility. I needed a bed for myself, a crib, a rocking chair, and a dresser. That room served us well for two years, until my mom let us turn a storage room into my son’s very own bedroom. Then it was time to get rid of the crib and rocking chair and finally make the space my own.
I couldn’t help but think about how my ex always wanted to cheap out on furniture and insisted everything be dark and grey. Our house symbolized how I was always the one compromising. Having a space of my own felt like a second chance to create something that reflected me. I literally and figuratively let the light back in.
When we first moved into this house, I was in high school. My mom let us pick out paint, and we did all the painting ourselves. It wasn’t perfect. This room was my older sister’s, and the little imperfections still make me smile. I even left one of her old wall decals up. But the rest is all new, and all for me.
I wanted to share this because I know how incredibly blessed I am to have family to lean on. That support is what allowed me to leave an abusive man and end my marriage. Not everyone has that kind of safety net, and I don’t take it lightly. I just want anyone who needs to hear it to know: there is light at the end of the tunnel.
I love my bedroom more than any space I’ve ever had before. It’s peaceful, bright, and fully mine, and that brings me so much joy. 🩵
by jvxoxo