Attempt at finding a home (after 8 months living in Airbnbs)

Storage units, kitchen appliances, and groundless roots

Apr 20, 2025

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After eight months of living out of suitcases in an Airbnb, with our belongings tucked away in storage, we have finally found a home.

We didn’t think our search would take so long. But one problem led to another, and the months began to bleed together—until suddenly, another summer was ready to blossom.

We were a little unprepared for just how long short-term accommodation could last. We didn’t pack nearly as much as we needed. I’ve been wearing the same few clothes on repeat, achieving ‘capsule wardrobe’ status entirely by accident. I didn’t think we’d see a winter from our privileged purgatory, so I didn’t bother bringing a coat. We live in LA, after all—it doesn’t get that cold. But even now, in mid-April, there are grey, rainy days—and I dream longingly of my puffer coat, snoozing somewhere in a Van Nuys storage unit.

“It’s in storage” has become an oft-repeated phrase in our household. Words recited every time an unanticipated need arises.

Our hiking shoes.

The umbrella.

The dogs’ raincoats.

There are other, less weather-related items we’ve missed. Items of comfort and joy. Our large bed—bought to fit two average-sized humans, one medium-sized dog, and one very large dog. Our sofa, chosen for its willingness to accommodate a fully horizontal human. Our armchair, bought for $150 off Craigslist when we first moved to America eleven years ago, which, before we were separated from it, seemed only to grow more comfortable with each passing day.

The kitchen appliances that one suddenly becomes enamoured with in their thirties: the air fryer, the stand mixer, the ice machine.

“It’s in storage,” I say. Over and over. Either to my husband, or to my friends, or to myself.

It’s an anthem of not belonging. Of restlessness. Of having roots—but nowhere to sink them.

I wasn’t prepared for how much I would miss my stuff. Although it’s not really the stuff itself I miss, but more the person I am when everything is in my possession.

I am a fearless California hiker.

I am a blanket-wrapped, avid reader.

I am a capable vegan cake baker.

And then I think of those who lost everything in the recent wildfires—how unmoored they must feel. They can’t call a number and have their identity delivered to their doorstep in a large steel container.

And I think about those in this city who never had a home to lose at all. The folks in the tiny ‘houses’ by the river. The lady who sits outside Trader Joe’s with her baby. The man who waits at the traffic light by the freeway exit. The signs they hold bear handwritten words carefully chosen in the hopes that the world will pay attention… and maybe a crumpled dollar.

It is easy to forget, in the daily minutiae of being human, that I am living a charmed life. Happiness is not guaranteed—nor is health, safety, or a place to call home.

I don’t want to forget how close I once came to losing my life. And I don’t want to forget how close any of us are to losing everything we hold dear.

One night last week, as I sat in the living room of our Airbnb, a full moon rose until the glass panels of the front door framed its brilliance. A reminder of another passing month. A reminder of how insignificant we are. A reminder that the moon keeps rising, no matter what we’ve lost.

Wherever you are, friend, I hope you’re well.

And that even in the humdrum of daily life, you find moments of majesty that make your heart soar.