Home

About an hour ago, D. and I moved out of Pittodrie, a flat I have been renting for the last three years. As we carried out the last bits of bags, boxes, and various bits and bobs, I sobbed inconsolably. Since we decided to move, I knew that, despite feeling excited about the charming process of nesting in a new home, I needed to say goodbye first.

From the outside, Pittodrie is not a remarkable place. One of the old council houses turned into a rental. Despite its appearance, it is warm, spacious and bright, surrounded by trees and gardens. On good days, if you listen carefully, you could hear the sounds of waves crashing on the Aberdeen shore. On football game days, you could tell if Aberdeen was winning or losing depending on the cheers of the crowd. On sunny days, you could take out a blanket, choose a tree to snooze under, read, or watch the clouds pass by.

I moved to Pittodrie with a suitcase, some boxes, and my cat, Helga, in September 2023. On the move-in day, S. sent a message saying he had thought things over and wanted a divorce. I unpacked, put all the items where they belonged, and then sat down on the sofa and cried. It didn’t matter that I did not love him and wanted to be out of the marriage as much as he did. What mattered was that, at that moment, I felt alone, abandoned, and so far away from the warmth and safety of a family home. Pittodrie didn’t feel like home yet. It felt like just a place that was more convenient than the previous one. The situation with S. dragged on for a while before it finally ended. By then, as I was changing, so Pittodrie changed with me. It got several new bookshelves, a new rug, lots of plants, books, a record player, and a salt lamp. It felt cosier and more mine. I also met D. at that time, who brought colour to what was otherwise a very dull existence.

Not all of it was easy. Therapy certainly was not easy. Breaking myself into parts to see where each part came from and where it belongs meant months of depression, countless hours of crying on the floor because the ground was the only place to be, numbness that permeated all waking moments, a sense of meaninglessness, and a desire to just turn around and run like in the movies. It also meant anger, regret, frustration, and a painful realisation that I will never know who I could have been if things had played out differently. Pittodrie was a safe place where all of this could unfold. The house took in everything and gave so much in return. It was a home I built for myself as I emerged from the transformation of the last three years.

As we said goodbye to the house, D. and I had our last meal there, watched something on the telly, walked around the block, and slept in our bed for the last time.

We counted our firsts: the first non-date (we had a number of those, each a story for itself), the first lie (mine: “I’m not looking for a date”), a late-night walk by the sea, stargazing, “walk me home” to the door, whisky tasting, our first kiss (after almost three months), our first proper date, panic episodes (his, then mine), heart-holding, sleeping next to each other, an afternoon at Codona's, first time we had sex, our first argument, a trip to the Highlands, Helga’s first escape (D. left an open window, Helga became an indoor-outdoor cat), the 24 hours she went missing, the first bird she brought in, the mouse she caught in the field and ate in the living room.

I counted my firsts: crying on the floor for three hours, naming my deepest wound, a depressive episode that pinned me to bed, allowing myself to feel anger for lost time, grieving my parents deaths, a photography class, my first analogue camera, my first printed black and white photograph, an online course in literary theory, an acceptance letter for a master’s programme in English Literatue and Cultue, a writing retreat where I sketched an outline for a novel, collaborating with an artist collective, first oblished piece of writing, a planned pregnancy, a miscarriage, life after the miscarriage...

We counted countless kisses, hugs, dances, meals made and shared, cups of coffee, mugs of hot chocolate, movie nights, walks at the beach, days spent under a tree behind the house, snuggles with Helga, yoga mornings (mostly D.—I sleep), arguments, fights, laughs, dark jokes, flowers bought, hot showers, long conversations with A., long conversations with friends (old and new)…

So much life went through that home. I will miss it deeply.

I know I am moving into a flat that will become a new home. But it is not just that. A lot is changing at once. I am pregnant again, and I don’t know if a new miscarriage awaits down the line. What will life look like after little munchkin arrives? Will there be any space for me? Will I be able to continue chasing my lost time? Things at work are not any better. The crisis of Higher Education in the UK may require some sacrifices and difficult career choices. It also means more of my colleagues and friends might leave. What will my intellectual home look like? Will it remain in Aberdeen, or will I need to create one somewhere else and do it differently? What will that look like?

Intuitively, I know this is the start of a new chapter. One that will ask more courage, commitment, and trust from me. Of course, I am terrified, to the point I almost refused to leave Pittodrie. But moving forward is inescapable, even if I am caught in the middle of overlapping swirls of change.

The best, the only thing to do, I suppose, is to take a deep breath, close my eyes and remind myself that home is where I am and all shall be well.