I have always lived in a rental apartment with my mom. More accurately, my mom has always lived in a rental apartment and I also live there because I’m her daughter. Really, it is her place. My mom has always wanted to own something – a house, a condo, didn’t matter. She wanted something to call her own, but it was never attainable since New York City is so overpriced. She found a nice medium in the apartment we live in now. She’s been very good friends with our landlords for over 30 years and they let her do pretty much whatever she wants with the apartment.

My mom takes up the whole place (which is pretty large). Her trinkets, decorations, pictures, lamps, and furniture are all over the place. The cats have also claimed everything. I am confined to my little room in the back. Even there, her clothes claim the entire second rack in my closet. My room barely fits a regular sized dresser, nightstand, and bed. I could really use that second rack for my clothes. Nevertheless, my mother’s clothes exist there.

When I was in my freshman year of college I commuted, so I lived at home. I was fed up with my cramped little room. I was tired of the wall-to-wall carpet that had been there for decades, the paint peeling off of the walls, my bed that was only a twin size but still too big. We saved up some money and overhauled the entire room. I upgraded to a 7-foot loft bed, a brand new carpet, and some new paint. I could fit a desk under my bed and still had space to move around. As a final touch, I convinced my mom to donate some of her clothes in my closet, allowing me to completely reorganize the depths of my closet that I had never seen before.

For the first time, I had a room that really felt like me. It was spacious and functional. Before, I would trip over my bed or my dresser because they were so close together. Now, I can even do yoga in there, if I really wanted to. I reclaimed my bedroom as “mine,” even when the rest of the apartment is “my mom’s.” It is clutter-free, unlike the rest of my apartment still filled with my mom’s trinkets and favorite pictures, exactly the way I want it. Although I don’t mind the rest of the apartment, I find that I appreciate the things in my own room more. It serves as a sort of practice for when I actually do have my own apartment or place. It’s soothing, it represents me. As Miller notes about accommodation versus accommodating, I think I have finally accommodated the room to me.