Moving Back Home

So, you’re moving back in with your parents?” my co-workers asked with trepidation upon learning I would be returning to my home city.  “No, just with my mom. My dad is in assisted living.” I clarified.    

My parents had me in their forties. This meant they would reach their eighties before I even turned 40, which in turn meant I would need to start caring for them in my 30s.  

I had no idea what any of that entailed until my father’s health deteriorated as ALS took hold of his body. All I knew in that moment was that I needed to be back home. So, I asked my employer for permission to work remotely, put my condo up for sale and moved back in with my mom.    

During those last two years of my father’s life, I devoted much of my free time to sitting with him in the waterfront garden of his care home. By then the illness had already taken away his speech and mobility. So, we just sat with the pristine burble of the river lulling us to rest under the sun’s caress. We exchanged tender hugs. I talked, he listened. We deepened our relationship and grew closer than we’ve ever been.

When my dad passed at age 80, I was 36. My mom, who is only three years his junior, lost her husband of 50 years. With the loss and her own mounting insecurity, it became clear to me that my role of caregiver and nurturer had only just begun.    

But how was I going to reconcile living at home with having a life of my own?   

My childhood home was not the most fitting place for a vibrant 30-something single woman. Societal expectations nagged at me; I wasn’t supposed to live at home. Moreover, I was aghast at the thought of living in a house that I had not fully decorated myself. The wall colors didn’t resonate. The couches weren’t lounge worthy enough for the hours I spent reading. And every room seemed to lack the clutter-freeness I relished.      

To distract myself, I joined a nearby fitness studio and fell madly in love with barre. Redecorating also helped. I added personal touches where I could. I hung beautiful seascapes once displayed in my condo and replaced some of the furniture with what I had brought back with me. I enrolled in a general interest course, loved it so much and launched my side career — all from my (redecorated) childhood bedroom. 

I now had concrete evidence that I was moving forward and not backwards. Consequently, my thoughts about living at home changed.    

Fast forward a few years and I’m still here with my 83-year-old mother — and so is my older sister. She moved in later after her 17-year marriage abruptly ended. At the same time, she was to undergo major surgery and what better place to heal and convalesce than home.    

Life continued and the initial disappointment of not fitting the mold dissipated as I gained inspiration and realized I could still pursue my dreams from here. Furthermore, fears of not having a life of my own never materialized.  

I learned to respond to my mother’s lighthearted albeit invasive, “So, who was that you were talking to on the phone with last night?” with laughter and poise. “A wonderful conversationalist.” I tease.   

And her sweetly inquisitive “Oh! That’s a beautiful dress. I’ve neve seen it on you before. Are you meeting someone special?” is often met with an ambiguous yet playful “Thanks, I like it so much, I decided to wear it all the time now!”    

While I shocked every man I dated with my living arrangement, not one ever held it against me. Like me, they also learned that anything we could believe in about social fluff can suddenly turn to dust, including perceptions of women who live at home.   

These days, I take great pleasure in the emotional growth, role reversal and humanity fostered by living with an elderly parent. I was not blessed with a family of my own, but moving back home rooted me in family life and beautifully connected me to mothers and fathers in ways I couldn’t have before.

I could offer more words on the joys of moving back home, but then I’d ruin the surprise. However, I will say that not fitting the mold is like wearing a stunning outfit (all pun intended). I learned in a luxury and fashion communications course that luxury, unlike fashion, does not bow to consumer’s tastes and trends. Luxury designs itself according to what it wants to be, setting its own worth, bar and style. Moving back home to become a caregiver is something akin to that.