On the night of September 9, my partner and I laid awake anticipating an email that would give us an access code to our new apartment. It was the last step of a long process; not just a month of active apartment hunting, but months of building up the resources and getting to a place in our lives where we could make the leap.

A global pandemic was not the ideal circumstance. But after catching COVID-19 in July, getting laid off, and spending our anniversary over Google Hangouts, I was spurred to make big things happen sooner rather than later. Add it to the list of things I was attempting in my on-going attempt to unwaste the year.

My journey through living in Los Angeles proper has always been marked by inconvenient situations growing incrementally more convenient over time. I started in a 300 square foot studio apartment with a mini-fridge and no stove, oven or parking. These days I don’t know how I put up with that for over a year; I suppose I was just elated with the idea of Miracle Mile, the short walk to LACMA and a litany of neighborhood bars and coffee shops to claim. It was an awful set up. The only time I could get groceries or go to the laundromat was on weekend mornings because any other time the street parking would fill up for a mile out. All of my furniture had to be extra tiny, the kind of couches and tables you would put in a child’s bedroom.

My next apartment I shared with one of my closest friends and I learned that I was not above all the roommate clichés: being mad about dishes, being mad about vacuuming. The apartment itself was spacious but falling apart. It had a huge crack down the living room wall, cheap short fiber carpet like a motel and although my room had big “french” windows, they required a full deadlift to open. When it got hot, it offered no protection. It had two toilets, but one was in the same room as the water heater with a door leading to the parking lot.

After that, I moved again, my third time in four years. For affordability and availability reasons, I went back to a studio, this one humanely sized with a real kitchen. This was my favorite apartment; it had parking, a great walkable neighborhood full of conveniences, and just-cool-enough air conditioning. My apartment was no longer just a place to keep my stuff. I did not feel slightly oppressed at all times. For the first time, my sense of freedom was anchored at home.

In this pandemic year, my partner and I split time between our two apartments. The thinking was it would help us avoid going stir crazy by keeping us moving and traveling. In reality it was another layer of inconvenience. And so, like any serious couple, we decided to enjoy the benefits of pooled resources and finally get an apartment that has all the bells and whistles.

After we found our place — we looked at more than a half dozen buildings in the area and only two were in contention — all the hard stuff began. For a month we lived in a state of limbo as we sold off old furniture while acquiring and storing new ones. We picked up two huge second hand shelves in Downtown LA that would not disassemble so we had to scramble for a last minute U-haul. We ate dinners without tables and watched TV without chairs. We were constantly scheduling pick-ups, drop offs and deliveries of items. At one point, my small studio apartment was filled to the brim with boxes. In a way, it was a good thing I wasn’t working.

We just wanted to get started, to start unloading the burden of living like this, but still we had to wait for that access code. On the morning of September 10, we went immediately to our phones and got the code. Now, the work could begin.

None of that inconvenience compared to the actual move-in week. Due to COVID, we didn’t feel comfortable asking people to help us move or even paying movers an exorbitant fee to take on the risk. It was also the peak of a summer heatwave. Every day, from morning to evening, we ferried boxes and furniture with our cars and a rental truck from two apartments to our new second floor unit. We built furniture, broke down boxes, and lived in a state of perpetual tiredness. The frustration of living among boxes meant never feeling like we could truly settle in. I had a short fuse for a few days. We had an argument about what butter knives to use.

Looking back on it now, I don’t know how we did it. I certainly wouldn’t want to do it again. I get tired just thinking about that first day, after moving boxes for 12 hours, but still having to build a bed before calling it a night. But that’s how I look at a lot of my past living situations: unbearable in retrospect but, in the moment, I just didn’t think about it and kept rolling.

I suppose that’s resilience. Living in a big expensive city like LA or New York, you are conditioned to accept inconveniences in your living situations and sometimes even wearing struggles as a badge of pride. Sometimes you get to upgrade a small part of it, like getting a new full-sized bed. Sometimes it’s even smaller, like buying a great can opener. These are small rewards that take ounces off the ever-present weight living in the city seems to leave on you. Each one is worth cherishing and savoring.

My apartment now, my home, is the most complete living situation I’ve ever had. I’ve never lived in a place so well put together, thoughtfully constructed and easy. And I share it with the woman I love. What does that mean for the pride of struggling? For the first time, I’ve fully abdicated the throne of inconvenience. I am no longer struggling to live in the city, just living in the city. It’s about time. But now what?

The answer is, it’s hard to know. I just got here. But out of the many moves I’ve had over the last 10 years, this is the freshest start I’ve ever had. Pandemic aside, now’s the time to start living.