“The Key That Opened More Than a Door”

Last Thursday, I turned a key — not just to unlock a door, but to reclaim a piece of myself.

After months of instability, after courts, shelters, police stations, and prayer-soaked nights sleeping in a car, I picked up the keys to my new apartment. No fanfare. No cheers. Just my trembling hand, my breath caught in my throat, and my spirit whispering, You did it. And I did.

But moving in hasn’t been easy. I didn’t have a moving van or a big crew of helpers. I had me — my legs, my hands, my grit. I’ve walked miles each day, sometimes ten or more. I carried my own belongings one trip at a time — boxes, curtain rods, saucepans, books — wrapped and labelled with care, because even when life breaks you, you learn to cradle what’s left.

I’ve drilled curtain poles into the walls with tired arms. I’ve climbed ladders I barely trust to hang voiles and linen. I’ve pierced my fingers until they bled. I’ve made art when I could barely think straight. I’ve sat on the cold floor with a cup of tea and a glass mug, with no sofa, no carpet, no cushion — just gratitude. Just presence. Just me.

My bed was late. My carpets were laid only hours before. And yet somehow, I still set it all up — even if not perfectly, even if I cried along the way. I made my bed and dressed it in throws and softness because I deserve softness, too. Even in a world that has tried to make me hard.

I failed to rest. I failed to stop. I’ve failed to feel settled — yet. The noise of the street kept me awake, and the weight of survival still sits heavy on my chest. But I’ve come this far.

This isn’t a picture-perfect “new home” story. This is about blood, sweat, and actual tears. This is about waiting in the rain, cooking with a single saucepan, hanging curtains that fell down and rehanging them again. This is about showing up — not just to a new apartment, but to my life.

So here’s to the Thursday I turned the key.
Here’s to every bag I carried.
Here’s to surviving what tried to destroy me.
Here’s to not being set — but being willing.
Here’s to the quiet, unfurnished, imperfect miracle of beginning again.

This is not just a home.
This is healing.