The saying “the grass is always greener on the other side” holds true in most cases. Not so much because it’s actually a natural law, but because we’re very good at adapting, idealizing, and looking back on situations best left forgotten with nostalgic longing. A roach-prone shotgun shack with a leaky roof and a onetime bedbug nightmare can look like Home, Sweet Home in the face of an objectively better locale if you’re staying there for reasons outside of your control.

I’m currently overlooking a grand river, with more trees than civilization seen from a high-up terrace. The cool breeze as gentle as it is constant makes millions of leaves rustle in soothing ambiance, and there’s a verdant park, local grocery store as well as a direct link to impressive public transit within a stone’s throw. The interior of this home is lavish by my (admittedly simple) standards, and the food within and nearby is beyond what I’d consider restaurant quality. Yet, it’s not where I belong.

In the past, this feeling would’ve stemmed from internalized feelings of inadequacy and a truly terrible habit of self-flagellation with no endpoint nor goal. Now? It’s a matter of the choices I’ve made—that I’ve made, not simply fallen into or been goaded by circumstance into accepting.

The last time I was here, I was so much worse off. Mentally, physically, the works. I was so anxious coming back here, but it’s been good to shut the book on this unspoken fear of facing an old site of trauma. Plus, said site is only a small part of the area and I intend to enjoy the fact I can step outside the door and not immediately start springing sweaty leaks all over my body like an old duct-taped faucet. It’s good to know that my time here has a limit. That’s the worst part about where I live: not knowing when I’ll be able to move on. Though, the slew of applications I throw out daily helps keep that oppressive dread at bay. That, and finding rad desktop wallpapers: