It’s been three weeks since I moved into my new apartment in Brooklyn. As sad as it was to shut the door on my emptied out apartment in Washington Heights, that sadness and sentimentality wore off quite instantly. From the minute I started unpacking the bottomless boxes of ‘stuff’ (clothes, shoes, accessories, books and decorations – you name it) until the last piece of jewelry was placed into its designated spot on a little black table – I have been falling more and more in love with my new place. My new room is smaller, but it provides just the right balance of cozy and chic in such a way that spending the whole day locked in it working on something does not sound like a bad idea. I remember when I first moved into my previous place – nothing seemed right. I felt lonely, I felt like the room was too big (which a lot of people would love but to me it did not provide that cozy, homey feeling), I felt uncomfortable sleeping in my own bed. I could not spend a day, or even a few hours, on the weekends just staying in – I had to leave the apartment early in the morning, or otherwise, I would get depressed. With time, of course, I got used to my apartment and by the time I had to move out it truly had become my home. I am not sure whether that was due to my first real experience of living on my own or if it was just never ‘my place’, but this time things are different. I am happy to go home from work, thinking about coming to my bright, welcoming room; I am comfortable with staying in, I’m in no rush to get up and go every morning on the weekend. As I unpacked my boxes, barely being able to fit everything in, I looked around at my over-packed room. I had to be inventive with creating as much storage space as possible – book shelves had to become shoe shelves, a coffee mug became makeup holder, a writing desk is now a designated jewelry stand. There is stuff everywhere, but this is exactly the way I like it – it’s cozy, it’s welcoming, it’s home.