I never wanted to live here.
In the family dorms on campus behind the football field? Definitely not the dream.
We had a deal. My husband received a sweet fellowship to follow his dream of working in Physics research. I was supposed to get a cute little house on a tree-lined street in the suburbs where I would stay home with my babies.
Except the boss moved the research lab to Michigan.
So the house fell through.
And suddenly we found ourselves thousands of miles from anything we knew with no place to call our own and an uncertain professional future.
Well, not no place. The university housing office offered us a spot, 840 square feet of linoleum floors and concrete walls with neighbors on every side. I knew I should be thankful. There was the nagging voice in my head, reminding me that our new home on campus was more than enough to meet our needs, more than many have the world over.
But I’d been telling myself a story. After living in dorms and apartments for nearly 15 years, I wanted a home. I wanted paint chips and flooring samples. I wanted space for a piano and room to entertain. I’d convinced myself I deserved those things.
It’s a spiritually dangerous place, living as though you’re owed something.
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