What happens when you stop building the life you thought you wanted and start listening to what keeps calling you?
My home officially sold.
What a strange little blip in time.
I bought my two-family home in Troy in 2018, just two years after going into business for myself. I was 26 years old.
What I remember most isn't the closing or signing the papers.
I remember working Friday and Saturday nights at the bar while building my clientele during the week. I remember every dollar feeling accounted for. I remember dreaming about owning a multifamily home because, to me, that meant I had finally "made it."
And in many ways, I had.
That house became my home.
I cooked dinners there. I planned little gardens. I curled up with my pups on the couch. Every morning we'd walk through the beautiful Troy streets to the salon, and every evening we'd walk home again. Looking back, it really was everything I thought I wanted.
Then life slowly changed.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
When my upstairs tenant moved out, I renovated the apartment and moved into it myself. Sunlight poured through every room. I found another wonderful tenant downstairs. Even through 2020, I was incredibly fortunate. My tenant stayed, never missed rent, and I can't blame what came next on the pandemic.
It was something much slower than that.
Owning a home alone became heavier than it once felt.
The expenses.
The responsibility.
The feeling that every project, every repair, every decision rested on my shoulders.
Eventually, I moved into my salon to save money. I've lived there for almost three years now.
I still love my work.
I love my clients.
The salon has given me so much, and for the first time since buying the house, I've actually been able to save money again.
But somewhere along the way I realized something else had quietly disappeared.
I no longer had a garden.
I no longer cooked dinner in my own kitchen.
I no longer walked home after work.
The city walls that once felt exciting began to feel... small.
Then came what I now lovingly refer to as my identity crisis.
First I was buying a cabin.
Then I was moving to Florida.
Then Nashville.
Then Italy.
Then back to New York.
My house sold.
My clients wrapped up.
My salon closed for its sabbatical.
And suddenly...
I didn't want to leave New York at all.
That surprised me.
For months I thought I was trying to escape this state.
But once everything was stripped away, I realized I wasn't running from New York.
I was grieving the loss of having a home that felt like mine.
Not an investment.
Not a project.
Just... home.
So now the search begins again.
Yesterday I spent nearly five hours driving through Corinth and Schroon Lake looking at houses.
One was an old home tucked into the center of a tiny town with beautiful original wood floors. I only drove past it because I wasn't about to make my realtor drive over two hours if I didn't even love the area first.
https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/4132-Rockwell-St-Hadley-NY-12835/32432726_zpid/
The second sat just outside Schroon Lake, hidden behind trees with the river rushing through the backyard.
https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/18-Miller-Rd-Schroon-Lake-NY-12870/53582714_zpid/
Beautiful.
Quiet.
A little too far away.
And yes... still slightly convinced I could make a fixer-upper work.
Which brings me back to the cabin that started this entire spiral.
It was tucked away among the ferns, exactly the kind of place I had imagined for myself.
Except...
No septic.
They couldn't even locate the cesspool.
An HOA.
A property that was nearly impossible to finance.
Knowing all of that... I still wanted it.
Looking back, it feels a little like one of those relationships where every red flag somehow looks charming until you're safely on the other side.
I genuinely hope whoever buys it loves it. I’ll again share the listing.
https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/21-Longview-Trl-Sand-Lake-NY-12153/32241809_zpid/
As for me?
I'm still looking.
Because I think I've finally figured out what I'm actually searching for.
Not an escape.
Not another state.
Not even necessarily a cabin.
Just a life that feels slower.
Closer to nature.
A place where I can garden, create, cook dinner, take morning walks with Shadow, and continue building the businesses I love.
Selling my home feels like closing one chapter I never expected to end.
But it also feels like making room for the next one.
If you've made it all the way to the end of this, thank you.
I have a feeling this little series of searching for home is only just beginning.
— Audrey Rosaria