A Room with a View Can Save You
Before moving from Western Maryland to Washington, D.C., I had a small goodbye party at my favorite dive bar in downtown Cumberland. It was a strange, sad and joyful occasion all at once. My close friends were glad I was getting out of a bad marriage and a small town I hated. Other acquaintances, people who were still close to my ex despite our ending, regarded me with a type of empathy mixed with uncertainty. One of them showed up with a woman she had known since childhood who was visiting her for the weekend. After meeting me and shaking my hand for the first time, the woman held my gaze for a minute. “You’re going to have really good luck with where you decide to live in D.C.,” she said, looking deep into my eyes. I smiled at her premonition and felt hopeful. I would take whatever I could get in starting over.
And I was lucky. My first apartment, something I found on PadMapper, had a decidely Bohemian ambiance, with wood floors, high ceilings, a gas stove and a vintage chandelier. The landlord, also divorced, had lived in it before moving to New York and had painted the living room a cheerful mustard color and the bedroom a bright blue. My D.C. friends who had lived in the city for years told me the place was a great find. I hung art everywhere, bought a new bed, built furniture I ordered online — basically, began to create the setting for my new life. Although I loved the apartment, it looked out into the bricks of the building next door and was small and forgotten in the shadows, the rich hues of the walls dulled by a lack of natural light — what I felt like during the my year-long separation living there before my divorce was finalized. I knew I would be free of my ex-husband eventually, but was sad about how long the process took and how little I knew about how to live on my own after being in such a controlling relationship.
About a year and a half into my lease, my landlord told me she was thinking about selling. I was worried about finding another place and began looking in earnest. There was another unit I was interested in, a few blocks up the street in Adams Morgan, not far from where I already lived. Like my first apartment, it was an older building, with black and white tile floors and lots of character. Initially, I went there to look at a unit on the back of the building, which was larger and cheaper than where I was currently living. The only drawback was it looked out onto a parking lot. As I was stepping back into the elevator preparing to go home and think about it, the building manager who was showing me around paused and turned to me. “You know, something just opened up on our top floor today. Would you like to look at it as well?”
“Of course,” I told her, getting goosebumps.
She pressed a button and up we went. We stepped out into a nondescript hallway, with dim lights and dark carpet. Then she led me to a door in the very center of the floor, unlocked and pushed it open, inviting me to go through first. I gasped as I walked into a bright, beautiful space. Every room in this apartment was flooded with natural light spilling in from tall windows in all the walls that lined the front. It had pale grey-blue walls that made you feel like you were sitting inside a robin’s egg. Looking outward, I could see the D.C. skyline, with the National Cathedral soaring up over the buildings in the distance and the treetops of a nearby park where people were playing with their kids and walking their dogs. My heart was beating very fast. I loved it but felt overwhelmed. Was I ready for this type of view, this type of life? Could I afford it?
Yes, I could. The unit was bigger and cheaper than my old place and didn’t require tenants to pay pet fees, a godsend in D.C. It had a bathtub, something I really missed in my previous apartment. There was a bus I could take to work that stopped right outside the building. The street was lined with cafes, boutiques, restaurants, an organic grocery store and a park. It was perfect. I filled out an application immediately.
I believe the universe sends good fortune our way when our hearts are finally ready for it. A month later, when my new apartment opened up, I decided to start moving boxes over gradually, before my official moving date. I stopped by for the first time after work at sunset. I walked from room to room, taking in the generous space, the gleaming wood floors, the clean bare walls, all waiting for whatever new memories and experiences I would create there. The last rays of the day’s light were falling over the horizon, bathing all the balconies and rooftops with gold. The blue sky glowed with streaks of pink. It was like looking at a postcard, but from a place I was no longer visiting and would now call my home. My eyes teared up as I remembered all the times I longed to live in a big city again. Now that city was right outside my window, spread out before me like a magic carpet.
It wasn’t the first time the view from my apartment would remind me how much I had to be thankful for. I soon discovered that if I woke up early enough, I could watch the sun rise from my bed. I began taking photos of these sunrises every morning and thinking about the day ahead.
Those daily sunrises have helped me get through some major milestones: my first post-divorce heartbreak, a particularly bleak time with my budget when I couldn’t afford to travel anywhere, ending a toxic friendship, some difficult and uncertain challenges with my job.
I’ve now been in my apartment for over two years, and I’ve never lived anywhere else that has felt more like my true home. Maybe the woman at my going-away party was right, and I do have good luck with finding great apartments in D.C. But whether it is luck, the courage to make better decisions, and finally claiming a life I didn’t realize could be mine, I will never take this view for granted. I will never doubt that I can’t change something that is no longer working and go after what I want. Learning to see and recognize what you think is beautiful is about defining yourself, embracing gratitude for what’s right in front of your eyes. Accepting joy you didn’t initially realize could be yours.
A Room with a View Can Save You
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