I Am 27 Years Old And I’m Moving Back In With My Parents


While four of my closest friends are moving in with their boyfriends, I’m contemplating moving back in with my parents.

To other 27 years olds this may seem like a step backwards, but sometimes you have to go back to propel forward.

Traditionally, this is a time where people settle with a lover, buy a designer puppy and split a rent together. And while when I was 21 I thought that I would be married by 28, I now have aspirations that perhaps by 27 I’ll stop blacking out.

It seems doable and I read somewhere that it’s very important to set achievable goals because if you set goals and then don’t follow thru it can hinder future aspirations.

And I’m not trying to hold myself back from my future selfie. I should probably feel behind, but honestly I don’t. It’s been so long since I’ve been dependent on someone who isn’t family and I’m not sure I want to rely on someone.

Family is forever; a boyfriend is fleeting. My family is so forgiving, I used to be so mean to my mom when I was younger and she still loves me. I can’t recall any boyfriends who would have put up with me crying in hysterics while simultaneously screaming I hate you and still make me dinner.

But my mom, I can recall many a time she’s forgiven me for what I’ve said when I spoke impulsively. My parent’s love is unconditional. Love doesn’t exist like that anymore. So I’m going back to the source. The tribe.

I have spent the past three years living in expensive cities with low paying jobs to “chase my dreams” and have wound up with a lot of debt and many phone calls home asking for rent money.

I might as well save both parties at the bank. I spent so much of my youth dreaming about leaving my parents and now that I’m “supposed to be on my own” I find myself texting and calling them like a telemarketer.

I’m ready to stop using all the data on the family plan, It’s time I cash in. Thug, money, millennial. AKA my parent’s spare bedroom. On my most recent trip to visit my parents, my mom woke me up with a fresh juice in the morning. How could I not want to move back home? I don’t have to pay rent or buy groceries and I can live next to the ocean?

Sure I’ll have two roommates who are kind of annoying occasionally, but surely they will be better than my current situation.

My roommate has a folder of photos that he keeps to document my dish-washing ineptitudes. So I left a little honey on a spoon I put on the drying rack. With my parents I can say, “we’re all family here”, your honey is my honey. How am I supposed to care about a little crystalized honey when my mind is meddling on ways to save the world.

This whole ‘I’m going to move to the big city and create the life I’ve always wanted to chase my dreams’ is actually a load of shit.

Cause I’ve got expensive taste and I’m not a DIY kind of girl and this life I imagined for myself is kind of a Pinterest fail. The city is tiring and no one mentioned the bills, and how lonely it is to live with three strangers. And no one makes me juice in the morning.

I can see how some people would like to live on their own. Perhaps cultivate a relationship with the opposite sex, eventually move in with said significant other, but why get feelings involved when you could have all the perks with none of the uncertainty. I don’t want to wake up one morning and find out my boyfriend doesn’t like the taste of my honey anymore.

So my four closest friends are moving in with their boyfriends and I’m contemplating moving back in with my parents.

(Published April 10, 2017 on Thought Catalog)

This is Being 26.


5 day-old wine stains my bottom sheet.
I’ll do the laundry tomorrow I think to myself. 
Amazon boxes, a water filter missing the proper appendages to function
and bowls once inundated with #glutenfree cereal lay strewn around my room
Sundays soul cycle garb, sweaty & untouched in a complimentary plastic bag
A millennial museum.
My wireless printer too smart for my old computer sits incompatible, adjacent to pictures that will never be hung
Crystals to clear my Aura that have just stopped working their magic on my windowsill.
So much potential lies within this room yet a film of apathy lingers
I got up today I rejoice
Now what.
Who wants to hire me?
This is 26.
Who needs money when you have passion!
My rent gives me the side smile.
Who’s hungry?!
Sweet green for all! 
My father’s credit card still attached to the app. 
For my health I tell myself. 
Greens with a side of parental guilt, my favorite meal.
I finally hung that mirror last week, success.
It came 3 inches from concussing me in my sleep last night. 
This is 26.
A text: Renew your Obamacare. Xoxo Dad
I’ll adult later. 
A banner: Shannon from Hinge likes my story.
Did I accidentally click the interested in females button?!
No, it’s Shannon the boy. 
He’s a Trump supporter, next.
This is 26.
So and so successful person was broke and sleeping on his friends couch at 27, so that gives me approx 5 months to be somebody.
But I’m all Kings of Leon I could “use somebody”
That’s the easy way out.
If I wanted my Mrs. I would have pursued that in college.
I choose the teacher.
Cause I love to learn.
The hard way. 
This is 26. 
My banks fraud department called me yesterday.
Was I trying to purchase something at the BIG & TALL store?
No, not lately.
I’m on a budget.
This is 26.
I have two job interviews this week.
“To supplement my income”
Cause passion doesn’t pay the bills…yet.
Started from the bottom, now we here. 
Wish me luck, this time I’ll give a fuck.

(Published December 16, 2016 by Thought Catalog)