After seven years spent building a life in London, I packed up my belongings, boarded a one-way flight to Australia, and moved straight back into my childhood bedroom.
The decision didn’t come easy, but it happened quicker than I ever thought it would. My work contract was finishing, my lease was up for renewal, and I was feeling incredibly burned out. This May, it felt like the universe was telling me it was finally time to say goodbye to the hustle and bustle I had called home for the majority of my 20s.
After years of hyperindependence and living as far from my family as possible, I’m now back living with my parents at 31. If my 24-year-old self could see me now, she wouldn’t believe it, but London had bled me dry financially. This was the only possible next step.
I know I’m fortunate enough to have parents that I get along with, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t apprehensive. Three things happened since moving back in with my parents that have truly astonished me — and, surprisingly, a lack of privacy is not one of them.
I’ve had to adapt to being looked after
Two weeks after moving back to Australia, I badly injured my ankle and became completely immobile for six weeks. My days were filled with doctors’ appointments, a stint in the emergency room, and numerous scans to figure out what was wrong. My parents were along for the entire ride.
Back in London, my housemates sometimes wouldn’t even send a text when I was bedbound for weeks with coronavirus or a debilitating bout of anemia. But my parents have been steadfast in their support, cooking all of my meals and making a cup of tea whenever I’ve needed it.
As someone who prides herself on her independence, almost to a fault, I have felt incredibly guilty, and I thank them profusely. It got to the point where my dad told me I don’t have to thank me for these things. I still do.
I’ve been uncomfortable with the attention, but I remind myself that I robbed them of years of doting on their only daughter. It’s just not something I’m used to anymore.
I’ve had to adjust to their different approach to food
My brother and I joke that my parents eat like birds and mostly live off scraps. Cohabiting with them, I’ve noticed how little they eat during the day, occasionally snacking here and there until they prepare dinner.
Comparatively, I’m someone who likes consistent meals. I’ve been eating the same breakfast every day for the last seven years, love a proper lunch, and usually have the same five dinners on rotation. Living with them, I’ve often found myself complaining about how hungry I am.
More on adult children moving back home
Over the last few months, we have both had to adapt to each other’s diets, with my parents realizing they need to keep more food in the house to satisfy me. They’ve also started incorporating some of my favorite recipes, such as tofu and vegetable stir-fry.
My childhood home doesn’t feel like my home anymore
Don’t get me wrong, I feel entirely comfortable living here, but it doesn’t feel like I can treat this place like my own. This is through no fault of my parents, who have often encouraged me to invite friends over. So much time has passed that, now, I just feel like a visitor.
My bedroom, in particular, feels completely foreign to me. I might have once loved the tulle bedside lamp I picked when I was 16, and the portrait of Audrey Hepburn, but not anymore. And the artwork I painted at 17 that looms behind my headboard makes me feel like I’ve stepped into a time machine. It takes me back to a younger version of myself who wasn’t entirely happy with her life in Sydney.
This isn’t helped by the fact that I had to say goodbye to so many of my possessions, and I’m still waiting for my boxes to arrive. Maybe once I decorate it to my taste, the room will feel more like my own.
While I’ve had to make adjustments living here, I’m fortunate that these are the only ones. I initially planned to live here for a couple of months before I got on my feet, but now I realize it’ll be closer to a year. And I count myself lucky that I have such a soft place to land.
