I think every woman should have three things over the course of her life.

1. A group of amazing girlfriends to go dancing with.
2. A cat.
3. An apartment without roommates.

I moved into my first apartment when I was 27. Up until that point, I had lived at home with my parents and commuted to college. The only “living on my own” experience I had was when I spent 6 weeks studying at the University of Barcelona, and even then, I had roommates.

But when I came home from that trip, I had a hard time getting back to “normal”. It felt like “normal” didn’t fit anymore.

Getting the apartment happened fast. I only looked at a few, and then an apartment opened up in my friend’s building across the hall from her. What are the odds.

I signed the lease on a Saturday morning, and suddenly was thrust into adulthood. I had to pay rent and all the other bills that come with living in an apartment or house.

At first, I sat on the floor of the apartment, walls bare, no furniture, just me and this empty space. The walls were painted Oscar the Grouch green from the previous tenants. And I thought, “What have I done?”

But then I picked out paint colors. A sandy almond for the living and dining areas and a neutral gray for my bedroom. (I am a millenial. I love millenial gray. Sue me.)

My brother took me shopping for decorations to make the apartment feel like home and spent an entire Saturday helping me make the space perfect. My mom dropped off plates and dish towels and ice cube trays, little things I hadn’t even thought of, and took me to Target to get a microwave.

My first night in the apartment, I went to a friend’s reading for her MFA program. One of the students read a poem about moving out of his first apartment. It made me teary. His poem about the end when I was at the beginning. I had to remind myself that I was far from another moving day, but his poem stuck with me. I knew things would change one day. I’d move out. Circumstance would dictate as much. But until then I would enjoy everyday in my space.

My little corner of the world was heaven.

Afternoon naps on my couch. Baking and trying new recipes in my little galley kitchen. Watching the snowfall through the window across from my bed. Drinking a glass of wine in the shower while I got ready for a Friday night out.

And it was all mine. Every inch, every room. Freedom. Independence. What luxury. I’d unlock the door and breathe a sigh of relief every time I came home.

I lived in that one bedroom for seven years. It saw my heartbreaks and panic attacks and migraines. But it also held my hopes and dreams. My wishes and stories and joy. Every closet and corner held all of me, like a cradle.

When Mark and I decided to move in together, the one bedroom was just too small. We found a place quickly that we both fell in love with, and then it was time to tell the landlord that I’d be moving. The realtor came around with a young couple, who complimented how my brother and I had set up the apartment all those years ago and asked where I got my furniture from.

When they left, I locked the door behind them and cried. This was the end, and I hate endings. But my life was changing and the only direction to move was forward. To stay behind would have been one of my biggest regrets. Like 12th grade feet in 1st grade shoes.

So, I moved. And Mark and I ended up buying the house we were renting. And I am so glad I had those seven years on my own in my little apartment to gain all that experience and independence and confidence that comes with living on your own.

A year or so after the move, I was talking to a friend who said, “You wouldn’t have the life you have now if it wasn’t for Mark.” And maybe that’s true, but not for the reasons that underlie what my friend said. If I didn’t have Mark, I wouldn’t have love or companionship. But to say that I wouldn’t have the life I have now if it weren’t for my partner is somehow implying that I hated my life before. When, in fact, the opposite is true. It is only because I loved my life before Mark that made it possible for me to embrace my life with him. He is an addition, not a because of.

And part of that life was my one bedroom apartment. All to myself. And if I had to start over, if something happened to Mark where I was suddenly on my own, a little one bedroom where I could take afternoon naps on the couch and bake in my galley kitchen would do me just fine.

Until next week, friends.