I have started writing about the rooms I’ve had on my own through my life:

My first room when I was twelve. My own sanctuary, away from my four younger siblings. Puberty. Menstruation. Realizing death. Balancing between the good and the bad.

My second room when I was sixteen. We had moved into a bigger house and all five siblings had their own room. High school years. Sexuality. Wanting to be with boys but also holding back. Parties. Concerts. Seeking the one.

My third room when I was forty five. A mature woman attending college like her grown children. After motherhood and marriage to my high school sweetheart. Roommate situation. Self-realization. Growing through literature.

My fourth room when I was sixty three. A studio and a bedroom in a large homestead from 1885. Often home alone. Full time work. Reading, writing and painting. A second relationship. Divorced. Finding my way. The joy and the pain of being alone. Breathing, meditating, fulfilling my passions. Gaining strength.

I grew up to be like my parents. To live their lives. To own their values. To be a mother and a wife. Not knowing who I really was. I never gave up, had to know. Moving to another country taught me; being a mother and a wife taught me; going back to school taught me; but especially, being alone in my rooms taught me.