But after moving into our current home—objectively the nicest place I’ve ever lived, as an adult or otherwise—I was surprised when I started to feel something akin to nostalgia for our simpler two-bedroom apartment days.

Before my landlord reads this and kicks me out for unpaid gratitude, don’t get me wrong: There’s a lot I love about this house. My husband and I have our own offices and studios (his for music, mine for podcasting). We have a guest room and bathroom that’s made it possible for us to host comfortably. We even converted the formal living room into a home gym to make spontaneous workouts easier. (Upon seeing our behemoth of a squat rack where his loveseat used to be, the owner simply said, “Wow, okay.”) We even have a hot tub, which makes regular afternoons feel like vacations (with a view of a small lake, no less!).

But there are perks of a less palatial life that I find myself missing now that going anywhere means getting in a car and driving for at least 10 minutes. I can’t pop next door for coffee anymore or walk down the block for groceries. Cleaning this place is a part-time job that takes a full workday’s worth of time and energy. We pay a small fortune to heat and cool it; at this point, PG&E should begin their earnings calls by personally thanking us for our contributions to their bottom line. And sometimes, when the first of the month rolls around and I Venmo our landlord an amount of money that would make my parents blush, I think, “I miss renting one-half of a two-bedroom apartment.”

Life back then might’ve had far fewer amenities, but it was also a hell of a lot simpler (and, it goes without saying: cheaper). When things feel complicated or high-stakes now, that simplicity calls to me like a refuge. This is (probably) natural: My unexpected yearning for those days might speak more to the low stakes of the time period overall, rather than reflect a genuine real estate preference for sharing a sink.

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