A Place to Land
After four months of bouncing between subleases, immigration offices, and borrowed time, we finally had an address again. A real one. Just a few blocks from our old apartment, but it felt like miles from the chaos we’d been wading through.
One of Nicole’s friends had gifted us a baby wagon in anticipation of Lou’s arrival, and it earned its keep early. I tested its limits, hauling load after load through the neighborhood from our old place to the new one.
It was the first time in what felt like forever that we could breathe. No more re-packing every couples months. No more calls with the migration office. No more wondering what came next. (At least, with housing)
Compared to the mold-infested units below ours, where black fungus climbed the walls like invasive weeds, our apartment felt like a win. Nicole’s mom was the first to get to work, patching up all the holes left by past tenants. I followed with a five-gallon tub of paint, ready to smother every last stain and musty memory in thick, white layers.
Settling In
Routine arrived quickly — but comfort didn’t follow. Nicole carved out a little office in what would soon become Lou’s room. I, on the other hand, found myself with too much time and too little direction. The weather turned cold and gray, and for the first time, the idea of settling in really began to settle in.
It’s a strange kind of disorientation: to have everything in order on paper and still feel completely off-balance inside. When I lay it all out, it looked like life had somehow rolled out the red carpet for us:
✅ Got married
✅ Found a new apartment (again)
✅ Stayed in the country, despite all odds
✅ Nicole found a doctor and a temporary job
✅ Everything we needed, somehow, showed up
But when the paperwork stopped and the countdowns ended, I wasn’t met with peace. I was left staring at the quiet and the quiet stared back. All the noise had been holding back something heavier, a sense of rootlessness, a feeling like I was slipping into a life I couldn’t yet see myself in.
We had landed. We had a roof. We had a baby on the way.
But inside, something still hadn’t settled.
I didn’t expect the stillness to feel so heavy. All this time I thought I just wanted stability, a foundation. But once I had it, I realized how much of myself had been built around movement, around problem-solving, around doing. And now, with no clear problem to fix, no clear path to walk, I was just... floating.
And I’m about to become a father. In a country where I barely speak the language. In a system I don’t yet understand. I feel like I’ve landed in a life I can’t quite touch yet.
And I was starting to wonder if maybe the real weight wasn’t in the moving, or the paperwork, or the uncertainty…
…but in what it means to start a whole new life when you’re not sure who you are in it yet.
