The Gift of Going Home Again

I Moved Back in with My Family at 27 to Save Money and Myself 

Who says you can’t go home again?  Image credit: Kelly  

When my partner and I moved to New York together, I had no idea just one year later, I’d be packing up our one-bedroom apartment — alone and cash-strapped — heading back to my hometown.   

As my living room overflowed with boxes, I searched online for places to live in Atlanta, where I grew up.  As I typed in the search bar, I remembered the promise I made to myself when I moved out of my grandparents’ basement at 23, “Once I move out, I’m not coming back.”  

It’s not that I couldn’t come back. I remember the day I announced my move —  walking up the stairs, knocking on my grandparents’ bedroom door, sadness crossing their faces. “Well, if things get tough, you always have a place to call home,” my grandma said.  

When I started out on my own, I was pretty self-sufficient. I went from living in their home to having my own two-bedroom apartment in the city. I had a managerial position at work and started graduate school and became a content creator. I didn’t want to rely on anyone but myself. Although my grandparents and parents always told me it’s OK to ask for help, I found myself unable to. 

Then I met someone. We started dating long distance. I didn’t realize falling in love was going to put so many miles on my car, as I trekked almost two hours to see them outside the city. When we grew tired of the distance, we decided to move in together. I transferred all my classes online and moved to New York. 

I was living my dream life. Then I got laid off from my job. It took nine weeks to receive unemployment benefits. I could barely afford to get a coffee from the cafe a couple blocks away. My credit card usage skyrocketed. I felt like the 21-year-old version of me, except this time I didn’t have my parents or grandparents to rely on.   

My new financial reality set in quickly. As Uber rides sped out of my reach, I stuck to taking the train. I tried to start budgeting. But I struggled to fit in groceries. To make ends meet, I got food from free grocery days at the church down the street from my home, frequented local outdoor food markets and applied for EBT benefits.  

News stories about a potential recession bubbled up online. Unemployment rates jumped. People around me started getting laid off. I wasn’t an anomaly. This was a part of a bigger trend, I realized. I grew desperate to find any job. 

I wallowed in unemployment for a few months. I finally secured a temporary job. Then the breakup came. We agreed I would keep the apartment, but soon I realized the sad truth: I couldn’t afford it alone.  

So I made a phone call. When my grandpa “jokingly” told me he had a room up for grabs downstairs, I had to seriously consider it. My finances were in shambles. So was my spirit. I was ready to find a true place of healing. There is no better place to recover than with my family and people who love me. So at 27, I decided to move back home to save money.

As I packed my U-Haul, I made a Threads post. I asked for encouragement from others who had to move back home.  I received an overwhelmingly large number of positive responses. The response that resonated with me the most was: It’s never too late to start over.