An Apartment of One’s Own

2026-02-24 - 06:44

Listen to the AI generated audio article. Your browser does not support the audio element. It took a while for me to slowly introduce the idea of living on my own to my parents. In Armenia, it’s highly uncommon for young adults to move out of their parents’ house, which is why my decision seemed shocking. I was afraid they wouldn’t understand, but my fears were unfounded. Though my father stayed mostly quiet, my mother confessed that she herself had wanted to live independently at 21. She supported my idea. My grandparents raised no concerns either; they backed my parents’ decision and mine. Perhaps they had doubts, but they did not voice them to me. Even though I am the eldest daughter, and no longer a child, my family sometimes still sees me as a porcelain doll, someone they trust, yet keep close so she doesn’t break. I understand their fears. I share some of them; I’m cautious, even paranoid about strangers and safety. Still, I felt the need to widen my boundaries, to step beyond the careful protection of home. Moving out wasn’t an act of rebellion, but a rational decision to gradually uncover the layers of adulthood on my own. Since childhood, I’ve valued my personal space. I’ve been building my own world of comfort in my lair—my room. The white and cyan walls kept my secrets and separated me from the reality I often wished to escape. The desire to have more control over my life led me to expand my world and relocate to a new blank space, one where I could begin crafting my future. As soon as my university semester ended, my mom and I started sorting and packing my belongings into suitcases. It felt like preparing for a trip, but with a one-way ticket to an unknown destination. I was excited, but also guilty about leaving my room behind, the place of my teenage memories. My family had been renovating a new apartment for a while, but what I couldn’t have imagined was that in 2026, it would become my future home, a place where I’d listen to music without headphones and fry eggs in the morning. After I got the keys, I visited often, treating it like my future best friend, daydreaming about how I would decorate it. At first, it was difficult to call this unfamiliar space my home. It looked perfect, like something from a magazine cover. The bookcase shelves were dust-free, the green bed sheets untouched and smooth. No one had cooked a spicy dish in the kitchen, and the rooms smelled of wooden furniture. It was perfect but soulless, yet to be filled with emotions and character. I started bringing life into what felt like a brand new hotel, one that slowly began to learn my personality. The building was new, and people were gradually moving into their new apartments. During the day, the building felt abandoned. The corridors were artificially lit. Various doormats waited for owners and guests alike to come in, but I encountered no one in the mornings and afternoons. Haunting as the building was, in a sense, it was also calming. At night, however, the neighbors next door came alive. Their laughter didn’t align with my nighttime rituals, but at least I knew they existed. Over time, I began meeting the owners of the welcome mats: a couple next door with a shy corgi, a Russian couple, and others I still recognize only by the sound of their laughter. Living alone often feels like playing an adult simulator game. Side quests like grocery shopping, cooking, laundry and cleaning started getting check-marks in my imaginary to-do list, and I felt satisfied after completing them. The romanticization of picking up the ingredients for my future “potions” felt exciting and slightly surreal. I could decide how often to crawl to the fridge during the day and began noticing patterns in my needs and wants. I’d be lying if I said some levels of the game aren’t draining. Some days, I’d rather merge with the sofa instead. Still, having full control over my space and time made everything easier and the tasks faster to complete—all leading to the final reward: sleep. The first night alone was cold and unpredictable. The silence pressed down on me with its existence. The darkness was serene, but bumping my legs and arms into the unfamiliar corners of the bedside table and doors was not. Maybe the apartment didn’t want to welcome me. That night, I regretted my decision and thought of going back to my parents’ place, but the feeling passed quickly. Since I moved out, my relationship with my parents has become friendlier. I started receiving invitations to eat homemade baked chicken with potatoes and to tell them about my new adventures. Yet visiting my parents’ house sometimes feels surreal. Calling my mom and asking, “Shall I come to your place?” [Գա՞մ ձեր մոտ] instead of “our place” [մեր մոտ] felt awkward and unnatural. My youngest sister inherited my bedroom, and it’s completely transformed. I can’t describe the uncanny feeling of seeing a door sign reading “You’re entering the bunny zone” and stepping into a room fully decorated with rabbits and toys. My room with its cyan walls, fantasy books, and posters now has become a princess’s kingdom of rabbits. The transformation reminded me of the scene in Toy Story when Buzz Lightyear appears and Andy’s room suddenly changes. My traces have left it as the room passed to my little sister. I realize now that I have the power to create my own kingdom within my new, dark blue walls. My apartment is slowly getting to know me while I am adapting to its capricious traits. I expected problems in my living-alone routine, and they appeared: a leaking shower, expired food, unpredictable temperature swings. Despite all that, we’re getting along, and each passing day, I feel more at peace. Moving out gave me endless opportunities and freedom. It also gave me space to fail, to adjust and with that freedom comes responsibility, unpacked slowly, one layer of adulthood at a time. Comment Cover photo by Roubina Margossian. LIFESTYLE Transitions February’s SALT issue explores the quiet and defiant shifts reshaping Armenian society, from gendered double standards around smoking and young women living independently, to reclaiming St. Sargis in the age of Valentine’s Day. With a profile featuring Armenian-American writer and illustrator Nonny Hogrogian and a photo story about women footballers breaking barriers, this issue is all about transitions. Smoking, Shame and Gendered Surveillance Tamara Khachatryan Feb 23, 2026 In Armenia, while men navigate the harmful habit of smoking with relative freedom, young women are faced with judgment, surveillance and social scrutiny. Tamara Khachatryan examines how gendered expectations shape who is shamed, who is ignored and how societal norms enforce control. Read more Move Over St. Valentine Maria Tumanyan Feb 23, 2026 While Yerevan is awash with roses and red balloons on Valentine’s Day each year, Armenia’s own patron saint of lovers quietly fades into the background. Maria Tumanyan uncovers the layered history, pagan roots and enduring rituals of St. Sargis, a feast where love, legend and identity intertwine. Read more