Moving Back Home
It’s every 20-something’s worst nightmare: moving back to your childhood home. In a world that tells us independence is the ultimate marker of adulthood, going back to your old bedroom can feel like failure. The posters might be gone, the paint might be different, but the walls still remember every awkward phase you went through—and now you’re back, unpacking boxes under their watchful eye.
But here’s the reality: in this economy, moving home is often the smartest choice you can make. Rent prices are climbing faster than paychecks, and many of us are stuck choosing between living paycheck to paycheck, cramming into an apartment with too many roommates, or swallowing our pride and heading back to our parents’ place.
That said, not everyone can move home. For some people, there’s no space. For others, it’s not safe—or the option doesn’t even exist. That adds another layer of pressure: navigating your 20s while building stability entirely on your own, without a safety net. It’s a reminder that while moving home can be a reset button, it’s also a privilege not everyone has.
For me, it happened after a mentally draining roommate situation. Someone I thought was a friend walked out six months into our lease.
I still remember the day she sent that text. I knew she had been planning to leave, but I thought she’d keep paying until I found a new roommate or our lease ended. Instead, she offered to cover one more month and that was it. I panicked. I’d already tried to find someone—my only options were a mother and son wanting to share the master, an 18-year-old with no credit, or a 55-year-old man. Everyone else I knew was locked into their own leases. Paying rent alone wasn’t possible.
It felt like my dad had some kind of sixth sense. Just minutes after I got that text, he FaceTimed me about something random. The second I saw him, I broke down. We talked, and when he heard I had a few days off work, he said: “Come home, we can talk about it.”
So I packed myself and my dog into the car and drove home. When I got there, I fell into his arms and just kept crying.
My dad is a planner—he always has been. And I knew deep down my only real option was moving home. I hadn’t lived there since COVID shut down my college, and I hated the idea of going back. My childhood bedroom was too full of who I was, and I’d worked too hard to become the person I am now.
So I set a boundary: if I was moving home, it wouldn’t be into my old room. Since we had a basement that had always been my dad’s office, I asked if we could swap spaces. That way I’d have my own area (and a door straight outside for my dog), and he could move his office upstairs. To my relief, my parents agreed, and we all worked together to make it happen.
Moving home was never meant to be permanent—it was a stepping stone. But it gave me the chance to step out of survival mode. When I was living with roommates, I was paycheck to paycheck, racking up credit card debt, and constantly in fight-or-flight. Back at home, I could finally breathe. I paid off bills, bought a reliable car, got long-overdue medical care, and even started taking better care of my body.
Of course, it wasn’t all sunshine. My parents treated me like a kid at first, forgetting I’d grown up in the five years since I left. But I pushed back, set boundaries, and eventually they started to see me for the adult I had become.
Moving home gave me the space to work on myself. It wasn’t easy, and it isn’t everyone’s story, but it showed me that going back doesn’t always mean going backward. Sometimes, it means finally having the stability to move forward.
