Moving Out, Moving Home

By Aida Talic

(Editor’s Note: Aida Talic was one of our Joyce and Tom Scanlan Scholarship winners in 2024 and is an active member of the Minnesota Association of Blind Students. In this story, she demonstrates her quick thinking and resourcefulness in the face of the real-life curves that can be thrown especially to a young person dealing with new experiences of living away from family.)

When I moved from my family’s home in St. Louis to Minneapolis, I was not alone. I had my guide dog Bunnie, my boyfriend Ben, and enough clothes and blankets to survive a fashion week and an Arctic storm. I had heard Minnesota could hit −20°, and as a Bosnian Romani girl raised in a very warm and very loud house, I was not about to freeze.

We moved into a furnished apartment, so thankfully, the only furniture I had to assemble was a single IKEA coffee table, which at first turned out completely janky. That was not a blindness thing—that was an IKEA thing. I called my dad for help putting the drill bit in, and he immediately said, “Why are you building something alone?” To which I replied, “Because I live alone now.” His disbelief was matched only by his pride when I finally got it standing. Slightly crooked, but standing.

Our first week in the apartment, I decided to make beans. Beans seem simple, right? Except the burner was faulty, and five minutes later, I had an entire pot on fire. Bunnie barked. I stood there confused, but we threw a lid on it and put it out, but I will never forget the smell or the panic. My mom laughed when I called her and then promptly said she banned me from cooking with oil ever again. [The landlord had the burner fixed very soon afterward.] 

Living with Ben, who is also blind, came with a whole new set of challenges. We can not just look at things to find them, so labeling became a major mission. I did not want to use just standard Braille labels. We needed identifiers we would both remember. We put a rubber band on the cayenne pepper because we use it constantly. We marked the washer and dryer with bump dots. I labeled most things by hand with my slate and dymo tape. It was not glamorous, but it worked.

The hardest part was that I am forgetful. I will move something, then five minutes later panic because I cannot find it. Ben is extremely patient. He goes through everything slowly and methodically. I am the chaos. He is the calm. He is brilliant with technology, and I have the Braille skills. Together, we function. It is messy. It is frustrating. But it works.

Unpacking our place was another adventure. I wildly underestimated how many hangers I needed. I probably bought seven packs, which still was not enough. We were tripping over boxes, and I kept getting upset at myself for not having labeled better when I packed, for not organizing better, not being better. But once it was all put away, I took a breath and looked around. It was not perfect, but it was mine. Ours. Home.

Of course, I miss my family. I come from a house where quiet is not a thing. My dad is always telling jokes, my mom is always singing, and my grandma is always making sure someone is fed. I miss the chaos. I miss the couch that is half-broken but still the best seat in the house. I am writing this now from that couch, during spring break, surrounded by everyone. And it is sweet. But I also cannot wait to go home, to Minneapolis.

As much as I miss being surrounded by family, I have learned something that I think every adult does eventually. Spreading your wings does not mean you have to forget where you came from. My new life, filled with cayenne pepper labels, furniture we assembled, and even a spontaneous kitchen fire, does not replace the old one. It adds to it.

Ben and I have made a home that is loud in its own way, filled with laughter, conversation, and the occasional “Where did you put the salt” moment. We have built routines, shared victories, and navigated the experience of being two blind people learning to live together.

Moving out did not mean leaving behind who I am. I brought every part of me with me, my culture, my stubbornness, my music, and my overpacked suitcase of clothes. I have made mistakes. I have had breakdowns. But I have also had breakthroughs. At the end of the day, it is not about the crooked coffee table or the burned beans. It is about learning, trying, and growing through it. And realizing, even if it is a little messy, you have built something that feels like yours.

That is home.