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| The author moved from New York to her parents' house in the Midwest while job hunting. Courtesy of Rachel Sacks |
As I stood in the middle of my half-empty Brooklyn apartment, surrounded by boxes and the faint echo of the life I had built there, a wave of emotions crashed over me. Shame. Embarrassment. Frustration. These weren’t the feelings I’d expected to carry into my mid-30s, yet here I was — moving back in with my parents at the age of 34.
After living on my own since graduating college — first in California for nearly a decade, then in New York City for the past two years — I never imagined I’d return to my childhood home in Ann Arbor, Michigan. It had been sixteen years since I’d lived there, and in that time, I’d crafted an independent life defined by my own schedule, my own income, and my own space. Now, in early June, I was giving all of that up.
The decision wasn’t born out of nostalgia or a desire for comfort. It was born out of necessity. My freelance work had slowed to a trickle, and the job market wasn’t offering much in the way of stability. Subletting my room in New York and living rent-free with my parents for the summer would ease my financial stress — but in making that choice, I traded one type of anxiety for another. While I no longer worried about paying rent, I now wrestled with the unsettling feeling that I’d lost my self-sufficiency.
Moving Home Was a Practical Choice — But It Felt Like a Step Back
Leaving New York wasn’t my first choice. I loved the city — the constant hum of activity, the endless things to do, the friends I could meet for a spontaneous coffee or late-night drink. My life there felt full and connected. In contrast, the Midwest felt quiet, even isolating.
But practicality outweighed preference. The cost of living in Brooklyn was becoming unsustainable without steady income. By moving home, I could buy time to search for a job without draining my savings. It was a rational decision, and deep down I knew it was the right move. Still, that didn’t erase the sting of feeling like I’d regressed to my 18-year-old self — the last version of me who had lived under my parents’ roof.
Job hunting is already a vulnerable process. Adding the layer of explaining to friends and acquaintances that I was back in my childhood home made it feel even more exposing.
The Adjustment Was More Jarring Than I Expected
In New York, I’d grown used to running my life entirely on my own terms. I decided when and where I went, what I ate, and how I spent my time. If I wanted to work until midnight, no one questioned it. If I wanted to take a long walk at sunset, I simply went.
Now, back in Ann Arbor, my movements and decisions required coordination. My parents only have one car, so borrowing it means checking in about their plans first. My schedule, once entirely self-directed, now feels tethered to two other people’s routines.
Even the small daily rituals I once took for granted have shifted. In New York, I’d pick up groceries when I wanted and meal plan around my preferences. Now, my meals are determined by what’s in my parents’ refrigerator — often whatever my mom has chosen to cook for dinner.
Then there’s the matter of working from home. My Brooklyn apartment was noisy in that uniquely urban way, but it was my space. Here, the interruptions are more personal — conversations shouted from across the house, questions yelled up the stairs, the clanging of pots and pans just as I’m hitting a writing groove. Noise-canceling headphones help, but they can’t block out every distraction. Case in point: I planned to write this piece from my parents’ kitchen table, but halfway through the morning I packed up and headed to a coffee shop for the peace and quiet I needed.
Finding Silver Linings
Despite the challenges, I know I’m fortunate. Many people don’t have the option of moving back in with their parents during tough times. I have a roof over my head, food to eat, and a safe place to regroup.
That doesn’t mean it’s always easy. My definition of independence — shaped by years of living on my own — is now evolving. I’ve realized that while I can’t control my living arrangements in this moment, I can control my habits. I’m making a conscious effort to keep my daily routine intact: morning workouts, a healthy breakfast, dedicated work hours until late afternoon. On good days, I leave the house to work from a park or coffee shop, or to spend time with my sister and her kids.
Maintaining friendships from afar has also been a lifeline. My friends in New York have stayed in touch, reminding me that the community I built there still exists, even if I’m not a short subway ride away.
Learning to Balance Gratitude and Boundaries
Living with my parents again has made one thing clear: communication is everything. We’re still figuring out the balance between me being part of the household and me needing space to live my own life. It’s an ongoing process to express my needs — whether that’s quiet time during work hours or the freedom to make plans without explaining every detail.
What complicates matters is the unspoken shift in roles. My parents are providing for me — food, shelter, and a car when I need it — which makes it harder to assert the same level of independence I had before. The financial reliance is temporary, but emotionally, it’s a constant reminder that I’m in a transitional stage.
Hoping for the Next Chapter
I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I do know this: living with my parents at 34 has been a humbling experience. It’s tested my patience, challenged my identity, and forced me to redefine what independence looks like in a time of uncertainty.
For now, my focus is on finding the right job, rebuilding financial stability, and making the most of this unexpected season. If I can strike a balance — appreciating the safety net while carving out my own space — I’ll come out of this stronger, and perhaps even more independent than I was before.
