When I was a Freshman in college, I decided that it would be a good idea to start asking for housewares to prepare for when I'd graduate. Yep, at 18 I was asking for plate sets, and then waiting 4 years to get them out. The March before I graduated, I got a job teaching in Indianapolis at a charter school, and so it came time to open all of the things I had been saving. I was thrilled. Little did I know it would be a very short stint in that little apartment. Can someone tell me why I thought it would be a good idea to live by myself, on the first floor, in the rough neighborhood I was teaching in? Long story short, many strangers hanging out by my window, and an attempted break-in (while I was home) later, I decided it was in my best interest to move. Fortunately I have wonderful grandparents who also live in Indy, and I had the privilege of living with them.

Nate and I got married after that year, and we moved into our first apartment together. We scoured garage sales, got great online deals, did some DIY projects and ended up with an apartment we love, full of things we had built together.

Now, as we sell and give everything away, I have to remind myself that this apartment is just the beginning of our journey. I hadn't realized how attached I had gotten to our things, and I'm almost embarrassed to admit it. Since when did I get so sentimental? It seems petty and materialistic.

Yet, I think it's okay to mourn leaving our home here. It where we began our lives together, had dear friends and family over, hosted parties, and learned how to be married (although that will always be a work in progress).

Maybe if I make the "Mid-Move" picture an artsy color, it will look nicer:

Nope, still horrifying.

My theory is that in a few months, this apartment will be a sweet memory, however the lives we build together are not bound to one sole location, but how we love each other (So, who's going to remind us of this when we're tired, jet-lagged, and trying to maneuver in a Korean-sized apartment? Anyone? Bueller?).