A Year Ago Today

A year ago today, I came to Phoenix to apartment hunt. 

It was my first summertime visit to the desert. I was worried I’d second-guess my decision to move here after stepping into the furnace I imagined July in Phoenix would be like.

My flight ended up being delayed — because of storms. Wait, it storms in the DESERT? That was my first introduction to monsoon season.

It would storm for the next three days. In fact, the rain-cooled air stayed modestly under 100°F for nearly my entire stay. Roads puddled, parks flooded, and people drove like they’d never seen a raindrop in their life. No furnace for me.

But it wasn’t a smooth trip.

On the first day, I toured an apartment I had been dreaming about since I scrolled across a photo of it on Facebook. It boasted high ceilings, more natural light than I could ever hope for, and even an upstairs loft space.

For weeks leading up to the tour, I had decorated the place in my mind, designating the loft as a dual office and guest room. I shared photos and floorplans with my Nashville friends, walking them through how I planned to make this place my home-sweet-home. This apartment was, without a doubt, THE ONE.

On the tour, my heart swooned even harder. Better yet, there was a unit — with mountain views! — coming available in October, just a couple weeks before my move date. Would I be interested? the leasing agent asked.

I was ready to say I do.

That evening back at my hotel, the leasing agent called to let me know the unit was now open for applications. I raced to apply, confident I’d be walking down the aisle to vow a lifetime (well, a 12-month lease) to this apartment.

Record scratch — that’s not what happened.

When I went to apply, I was greeted with a standard I couldn’t meet: I would need to provide bank statements to prove I made three times the monthly rent. I also happened to move at the exact right time — when everyone in the whole world was also deciding to move to Phoenix. The city was, and still is, at the top of the list for highest inflation rates in America. The same 1-bedroom apartment units that, only months before, were available in the $1300s range had jumped by several hundred dollars. 

So, no, I couldn’t prove I was making three times the rent at the time.

I lost it.

I called my best friend crying. This was not a delicate, soft-tears sort of cry, mind you. This was a cry featuring big, sad-girl sobs.

“What if I’m not supposed to live in Phoenix? What if I’ve made the wrong decision?” I wailed.

Would all apartments cost a bajillion dollars and require my bank statements? Would I be able to get approved for an apartment at all?

Was I was ruining my LIFE?!

She reassured me that I was not ruining my life, offering alternative ideas. 

After our phone call, I did what only a reasonable person would do: I set out to get some In-N-Out for dinner. By now, my emotional spiral had gone well past dinnertime, and my stomach was hella grumpy with me. But as I waited in the procession of cars snaking the line at In-N-Out, a giant storm blew up overhead. I called off my plans in an effort to make it back to my hotel before I got soaked. I did not, in fact, make it back in time; I still ended up walking from the detached parking garage to my hotel in a downpour.

I arrived back at my hotel soaked, without a cheeseburger (protein style), and without my dream apartment. I ate Oreos for dinner and went to bed defeated.

It’s a year later as I write these words at my kitchen bar, my coffee reheated and my clingy cat napping in the bar chair next to me. The cicadas buzz from the mesquite trees outside my window. Framed above my couch are the words “Home Sweet Home.”

I have an apartment in Phoenix, but it’s not the one I dreamed for myself.

It’s better.

The space is cozy, the perfect size for me and the floofs, and with mountain views to boot. I wake up every morning to catch the sunrise over scrubby, Saguaro-studded peaks. From my balcony last weekend, I watched monsoon storms roll through the Valley, the sky lit like a discotheque. I also happen to be within five minutes of an In-N-Out.

This apartment complex never showed up on Zillow during my initial research. The only reason I found it? I drove by the complex on my way to the apartment that, I had thought, was The One.

“All of life is story, story unraveling and revealing meaning,” writes the author Madeleine L’Engle. 

The writer-soul in me believes this — that our lives are rich stories, with clarity, so often, only gained in retrospect.

As I write these words in this apartment I never planned for myself, I find myself with questions and discouragement surrounding another story I’m living, unsure how the plot might unravel. 

And so I tell myself — and you — this one-year-ago story as an act of holy remembrance: what appeared to be a dead end, instead, revealed itself to be a golden thread connecting to something greater.

---