I will turn 30 next February. If you had asked me 10 years ago where I was at this milestone, I would never have guessed I was queer and living alone in a 551 square foot condo in Minneapolis.

At age 27, I tore my entire life away and started anew. The picture-perfect life--a five-year ostensibly stable relationship with my boyfriend, a bungalow with tomatoes in the front yard--was not the life I was meant to live. I got sober, ended the relationship I started at 22, came out as queer, and bought a condo in a busy part of town to live alone for the first time. At first I felt crushed by the loneliness and constantly questioned my choices. During my first week in my new apartment, my dog never stopped barking and I slept on (or constantly stirred up) a perpetually inflated air mattress. The only furniture I had was a plastic laundry basket turned upside down as a bedside table.

Gradually, however, I grew to like living alone, especially the freedom to decide things for myself. I live in a 1951 brick building that proudly incorporates the aesthetics of the Bauhaus movement. Heavy chrome doors, minimalist lighting, black steel balconies. My room had a solid framework, but it needed character. I wallpapered the living room with banana leaf wallpaper, painted the bathroom the color of pumpkin pie, changed the light fixtures, and installed a fireplace mantle I found on Craigslist. Almost everything from the tie-dye quilt to the geometric rug is crashing.

Just as I was beginning to experiment with my decor, I finally had the space to experiment with my sexuality. I had questioned my attraction to women since my early twenties, but never had the courage to date a woman until I got sober. In my new home, surrounded by plants, incense, and books, I felt like myself for the first time. I dated a number of women who were caring and respectful. Over time, as the colors in the house continued to change and clash, so did my understanding of my sexuality.

By the time I met my current partner, I was working on most of my projects. I even single-handedly mounted a huge light fixture with seven bulbs that I bought in West Elm over the kitchen island, balancing it on my head and twisting the wiring around to get it right. I didn't need a partner to move bookcases and dressers up the stairs, assemble furniture, or hang the curtain rod that separated the living room from the bedroom. I went out on my own for our weekly Friday night dates, and my independent life was more relieving than the name on the bathroom paint.

I met my partner on a hot summer day and we celebrated a year together in July. Although we are in the most loving relationship I have ever experienced, we are in no rush to move in together. My partner knows that my apartment is more than just a place to sleep at night. It is a home where I have learned to embrace my sexuality, deepen my sobriety, and clash patterns in ways that still make me smile every time I come home. My nearly 30 years on this earth are a perfectly imperfect assemblage. There is no more fitting place to begin the next decade of my life.