I had lunch with my friend, Alison, the other day.

Like me, Alison is (finally!) breaking out of Alabama and moving away from home for the first time (excluding leaving for college). Since we met in 2008, we have shared our simultaneous lamentation/appreciation of our… mature choice to remain living with parent(s).

Certainly, most of our peers never moved home after college. Or, they moved out and pursued a career right away… Not us. We did our degrees and came home to the start of the economic downturn…

Now, it’s 2011. Almost the end of 2011. And we’re finally bustin’ out of this joint. I turned 26 back in June and Al will be starting her new career in D.C. on her 27th birthday. At our lunch, we celebrated our victories. Finally, finally, finally… we get to leave Huntsville. Yet, when Al leaned in and said, “yanno, I may be almost 27 years old, but I’m not afraid to admit that I’m going to miss my mom.”

“Me, too,” I said.

Truth be told, I’m experiencing so many milliseconds of absolute terror regarding my upcoming move that I can’t even count them all. Paired with these moments, though, is a sense of immediate relief. I’m not really moving away from home: I’m moving TO my home. I’m taking up residence in the very home to which my grandparents brought my mother home from the hospital. My parents and my brother may remain 700 miles away, but I still have them right by my side forever.

My family dynamic, I must explain, is so radically different from that of anyone else I know. When my brother was diagnosed as autistic when he was  toddler, everything changed. As I grew up, I never really had the sincere desire to live away from my family. Certainly, adventure called to me and tempted me… but my priority, at heart, has always been my family. It’s that fundamental truth about myself that inspired me to make the decision to move. This decision isn’t even about me… it’s for my family.

Let’s go home.