I wish I could point to the specific moment when I stopped being an idiot, but there were many clarifying moments in my freshman year of college when I moved to the campus dorms.

I didn’t dislike Tuscan Hill so much that I couldn’t wait to get away, but not having to deal with the business and getting to go live on my own was exciting to me.

That first fall semester was nothing but a continuation of summer for me.

In hindsight, wrong. So wrong.

A few months into my freshman year, the rose-colored glasses of “independence” came off and the cloud began to lift. I could have lived at home, but chose to go live in 144 square feet of space, only six miles away from our house.

It began to dawn on me the stark difference between the living space I had enjoyed at home, and the one I was cramped in now. Don’t get me wrong, there was space to sleep and work at a tiny desk, but my roommate and I had no privacy, except for the shared bathrooms down the hall--which still isn’t private because HELLO 30 other people. To top it off, we had a luxurious NO ELEVATOR because the building we lived in hadn’t been renovated in decades.

The dining halls were another thing to navigate; we were continually at the mercy of whatever food was available.

Interesting side note, I actually worked for the catering company that officed on campus and also supplied all the dining hall food, so I knew too much. My dorm building sat right beside the building that I worked in, so I would go down the stairs, across the pavement, up the elevator--because they actually had one--and straight into work.I found myself going home every weekend and lounging in our sprawling space, and having my fill of our food.

Slowly I began to appreciate our home almost as a sanctuary; a safe haven. It was peaceful, inviting; words I’ve heard echoed so many times from so many of our clients. Isn’t it amazing that when you appreciate something, you unconsciously give others permission to do the same?

The idea of hospitality began to blossom in me--so slowly I didn’t recognize it at first -- but a seed was planted. And it’s name was “gratitude.”