It always starts with a cardboard box.
This time, the boxes are stacked neatly in the corner of the living room—blank, brown, waiting. I tear one open, start folding, and pause. Around me, the room is still full: books, yoga blocks, leftover cutlery. But in my head, I’m already somewhere else.
I’ve moved nine times over the last ten years. The first few were out of necessity. Back then, I was looking for something cheap—a room, not a whole unit. No decoration. No routine. Just a place to sleep and survive.
But over time, I began to realize something:
Every move doesn’t just change where you live. It changes how you live. And more importantly, who you become.
2018: First Taste of Autonomy
That shift began in 2018. I moved into a 2-bedroom condo with my girlfriend (now wife) and my brother. For the first time, we rented an entire place. It was fully furnished—cost-saving, but not exactly designed for how we wanted to live.
The kitchen was cramped. The lighting was dim. My desk was a dining table. But it was ours. We could sit together for dinner. We could close a door and take a breath. We had space—not just physically, but emotionally.
It was also the first time I learned what it meant to share a life. Our habits clashed. Our rhythms collided. But the space gave us room to figure it out. We weren’t optimizing for routines yet. But we were starting to see that space shapes behavior—quietly, constantly.
Eventually, my brother moved out and started his own chapter. That left just the two of us.
2020: The Pandemic Squeeze
My wife and I moved into a 1-bedroom condo—smaller, shinier, with a stunning view of the skyline. On paper, it looked perfect. The kind of place you'd show off on Instagram.
We were working remotely at the time, but the pandemic kept us home around the clock. And that’s when the space started to squeeze.
My “office” was a corner of the bedroom. Her yoga mat unrolled next to the dining chair. We whispered during meetings, tiptoed past each other, shared one small table for meals, work, and everything else.
The view stayed beautiful. But beauty didn’t make it livable.
We weren’t just losing space—we were losing clarity. Boundaries blurred. Days melted together. It felt like we were living in a suitcase we forgot to unpack.
2021: The Revenge Upgrade
The next year, we swung in the opposite direction.
We moved into a landed house with a 1,200-square-foot yard. From tiny to massive. From concrete to open sky. It felt like a victory lap. Space everywhere. Sunlight from all directions. A garden hose. A patio to breathe on.
At first, it felt like freedom. Then the lawn started growing.
I’d spend hours pushing the mower, sweating under the afternoon sun, questioning why we needed this much grass in the first place. There were no trees, no shade—just a never-ending patch of green that grew faster than our patience. The pain was real.
With every extra square foot came more decisions. What to clean, what to fix, what to maintain. The house became its own full-time job. We had space, but no energy. We had freedom, but no time.
We thought space meant freedom. But every weekend, we were patching leaks and mowing grass we never sat on.
2022: Owning the Space
Eventually, we bought our own home. For the first time, we could design everything.
We knocked down walls. We rewired lights. My wife got her yoga room. I got a proper home office—complete with a standing desk, natural light, and full-height bookshelves that held the books I’d collected over the years.
But the highlight was the kitchen.
Our friends and family were genuinely impressed. For once, everything had a place—the knives, the spices, the cutting board, the blender. We started cooking more. Eating more slowly. Hosting friends. Sitting down at the dining table without screens. We got fitter and healthier—not through some diet or program, but because our space supported it.
The routines clicked. Mornings had rhythm. Evenings were calm. We finally had a space that fit the life we wanted.
But there was a tradeoff.
Owning a home pinned us down—in location, in commitment, in capital. We were anchored to a mortgage. Repairs were our responsibility. The house worked. But it also kept us in one place when life was starting to pull us toward something new.
We were no longer renting a box—we were sealed inside it.
And the world outside was calling again.
2025: The Intentional Move
Which brings us to now.
We’ve sold our home and are moving into the city. Not for a view. Not for a yard. But for alignment.
We’re growing a business. We want to be closer to energy, momentum, and movement. We want shorter commutes, deeper conversations, and better proximity to the people and ideas that matter. We want to walk more, wait less.
This time, the boxes don’t just carry things. They carry intentions.
We’re asking new questions:
- Where do we want our mornings to begin?
- How do we protect our focus and our rest?
- What kind of energy do we want to invite into our days?
- How do we design a space for who we’re becoming, not just who we’ve been?
We’re not decorating a home. We’re designing a new chapter.
You Don’t Need to Move to Begin
I’ve learned that you don’t always need a new address to change your environment. Sometimes, a few thoughtful shifts are enough.
- Move your phone charger outside the bedroom. Your sleep will thank you.
- Set up a reading corner. Even if it’s just a chair and a lamp, it signals stillness and creates a cue to pick up a book.
- Clear off your dining table. Make meals sacred again—no screens allowed.
Environment is more than aesthetic. It’s an invisible script. It nudges you quietly, daily. It decides whether your good intentions become real habits—or just stay in your head.
Make Your Space Your Edge
Each move in my life has taught me something different.
Cheap rooms taught me resilience. Sharing space taught me empathy. Tiny condos taught me the cost of convenience. Big homes taught me the burden of ownership.
And this move—this one is teaching me to be intentional.
Because the environment you choose isn't just a backdrop. It’s a strategy. It shapes your energy, your priorities, and your growth.
As I tape the final box shut, I glance around the half-packed room. Dusty corners. Bare shelves. The light slants across the floor where a coffee table used to be. The space is echoing now, less like a home, more like a doorway.
We’re not there yet. But we’re on our way.
And that’s enough.
