on getting your hopes up.
Replacing waves of dread and looming senses of despair with dreamy visions and grounded imagining.
Back in April, I found out my lease wasn’t being renewed. I’d need to move out of the place I called home for the last three years.
It’d been barely two weeks since my breakup and it felt like a cruel joke from the universe — I was losing my partner and my home in one fell swoop. Being the (sometimes annoyingly) deep feeler that I am, this felt earth-shattering. I did not want to move out of my apartment, my home. Is it a crappy third-floor apartment? Yes. Do I hate it most of the time? Yes. Is it my safe space that feels like home? Also yes. Being forced to leave it (so that it can be renovated by investors who want to jack up the rent) felt like a very different thing than choosing to move voluntarily, and felt impossible. It still kind of does, if I’m being honest.
And then there’s the housing market. Rents are high, quality is poor, inventory is low, demand is high. It’s been bleak. I was scouring Zillow and Craigslist every single day, usually multiple times a day. (Perhaps not the healthiest habit.) It was really difficult to turn off the part of my brain that was all doomsday-ish, imagining shelling out hundreds more dollars a month for an even worse apartment in a less desirable area, if I could find anything at all. I went to a few showings, and each one seemed to be worst than the last. I left each one feeling more and more discouraged.
I didn’t want to be looking, I didn’t want to be thinking about leaving behind my comfort and familiarity and safety. (And to be honest, I didn’t think I’d be looking for a place to live alone again.) And yet, the clock was ticking. I had until July 31st, and then I’d have to be out. Of course, I’m very fortunate to have friends who were offering me a place to stay if I didn’t find anything in time, so I certainly wouldn’t be without a roof over my head, but still — the pressure was on.
Back in the early days of my breakup, I spent lots of time walking in the park down the street. Usually early mornings, sometimes afternoons, sometimes early evenings, I’d be at that park walking (and sometimes multiple times a day). It was that perfect springtime weather when the mornings are chilly and birds are chattering nonstop. I was walking one morning, travel mug in hand, when I had what can only be described as a vision. (Okay, maybe it was just my imagination and a little bit of faith, but it felt very much like something that came to me, rather than something I made up.)
Suddenly, I was seeing a home with a backyard like this park. I was imagining the feeling of rolling out of bed and having this be my reality — sun shining, birds chirping, dew sparkling on the grass, peace and quiet and solitude. Over the next few days, I really leaned into this vision. It played like a movie in my mind: I imagined sunlight streaming in through the kitchen windows. Steam rising in the light as I poured coffee from my French press. Two kitties sitting by the door, watching for squirrels and robins. A small table by the window where I’d sit and take my morning coffee. A slow, quiet morning, with just myself.
Of course, I’d then take to Zillow to find this dreamy place and no such place existed. And not only did it not exist, but that peaceful, calm, magical place I’d just created in my very being didn’t exist either. It was replaced by waves of dread, stomachaches, a looming sense of despair. And so I’d close out the app, try not to slide too deeply into discouragement, and refocus on my vision.
When I told my therapist about this dream, I told her that it felt better to focus on this rather than mindlessly scroll Zillow, even though it kind of felt like a waste of time because it seemed so farfetched. But she smiled.
Good, she said. Staying in that grounded place of hopefulness is how you’re going to find an apartment. Leaving your body to go doom-scroll on Zillow is not.
I took a deep breath. She asked me how I felt hearing that. I said: I feel relieved.
I left that session focusing on my dreams and hopes, even if they felt silly. I still looked at Zillow, but not from a hopeless, dread-filled place. As soon as the app started feeling icky (which was usually pretty quickly), I’d close it out immediately, trying to have trust.
I went on like this for a week and a half or so, and as July 1st rolled around I was equal parts completely hopeful and completely hopeless. I knew that staying in my body and my energy felt good, and yet I wasn’t finding anything. I only had a few weeks left. I was about to book a storage unit and crash at a friend’s house and give up all hope.
And then it was Monday morning, July 1st. I opened Zillow like I usually did, and this time there was a new listing. It wasn’t in my neighborhood, but in a nearby one within the same town. I scanned the listing. The price was right, it seemed great, and had just been listed that morning. I sent off a message not thinking much of it (expectations were quite low at this point). And then, I got a reply, asking when I’d like to come see it. I thankfully had a very flexible work day, and suggested that afternoon. Done.
As soon as I walked in, I exhaled. I could live here, I thought. The windows let in light. The hardwood floors shone. The kitchen was remodeled. I realized I had barely read the listing description, because if I had, I would have realized this was a duplex, not an apartment. An entire half of a house. It had two bedrooms. A basement, with a washer and dryer. A yard, with a private deck.
It was eerily similar to my vision. And this was all somehow within my budget for a crappy one bedroom apartment. (I’m still not sure how it wasn’t listed at a higher price, given comparable places on the market.)
I got in my car and immediately started filling out the application. I submitted it that same afternoon. They got in touch immediately with a few questions. They verified my employment and did all their checks. Twenty-four hours after seeing the place in person, it was offered to me.
By the time I signed the lease, there had been over 130 inquiries to the landlord on Zillow. Fifteen other people had submitted applications. And somehow, they chose me. On June 30th I was starting to feel like I’d never find a place, and by July 2nd I had one.
In that 24-hour period of waiting, I heard myself saying to friends, I’m not even not trying to get my hopes up. They’re already up. So I’m just letting myself have my hopes up.
This was radical. I don’t even know how to describe how radical this was for me. From an early age, I learned that excitement and aliveness were unsafe feelings. Not only were they not acceptable, they were also usually short-lived, quickly taken over by disappointment and fear and misery. (This can be what happens when you live with a volatile, unpredictable parent.)
It felt safer to not get my hopes up, not get too excited. About anything, ever.
Letting myself dream has been a practice. Imagining good things happening has been a muscle I’ve learned to flex, ever so slowly at first.
(There’s an important distinction here: There’s dreaming from a place of wishing to be saved by some future person/place/thing, and there’s dreaming from a grounded place of trusting that good things will come. The former has landed me in some precarious relationships, the latter always feels safe and secure.)
I think my therapist was right, that staying in my body and letting myself get my hopes up is the way to finding people/places/things that are matches for me. Leaving my body and searching outside of myself is not.
It’s got me wondering what else I can get my hopes up about.
what else can we get our hopes up about...what else...let's keep at it! love this so much and you!
This post gave me chills!! I so believe you were meant to find that home and that’s why you envisioned it so clearly. It was already yours. I’m so happy for you! ❤️❤️