Leaving Home Behind

I eat the same thing for breakfast everyday of the workweek. Literally, Monday thru Friday. At 8am. Two eggs pan fried in coconut oil, steamed broccoli, a banana cut into slices, and almond butter. Almond butter obsessed. It has been months and I'm not tired of my breakfast. I thrive in routine, consistency, predictability. Breakfast is no exception.  I always have. Type A, list, diagrams, and plans. Holla.

News flash, my house sold. After being on the market for a whopping two days, sold. I'm struggling to think of this not being home. Talk about change. I eat the same breakfast for the love of Pete. You mean no jetted tub to soak in or no kitchen peninsula bigger than my dining table to roll out cookie dough? You mean no sunlight peaking through my bedroom window every morning or illuminating my spot while enjoying said breakfast? Creature comforts, these materialistic luxuries have become a part of my routine. Down to the carpet. Did you know you could grieve carpet? I dream of old hardwood floors but I'm grieving the carpet for goodness sake.

But you know what I struggle with more? The memories that this place holds. I'm not "moving up" or off to "bigger and better." This move is one that my head knows is right. My head knows but my heart lags behind. Financially. Spiritually. Emotionally. It is time for a fresh start. A new place for a new beginning. It's not forever but for now. For this season. For the stage of life that is so drastically different than the need that this house provides.


 

But more than the carpet or the sunlight. More than the double sinks, neighborhood pool, and walk-in closet. More than these things that only I think I need, it's Addy's spirit that knew this place. She isn't alive so taking her with me to create new memories elsewhere isn't a luxury. Oh how I wish it were. I'd give it all if I could. My time with her is housed in these walls. These walls and the hospital room where she was born and she passed. I visit on her birthday and to take Addy's Stories to be given to families facing loss. I go back there because that is where she was. The hospital room and this house. This is were I learned of her, where my belly grew, where I read, where this momma shared my heart with my daughter (and all the Reece's hearts/eggs). Selling and packing and moving means there is no coming back. It is permanent. Her pictures will be hung at my next place and her life celebrated there...and forever...but this was to be her home. Our home. For our family. Forever.

But my head knows. It knows of the financial woes within. It knows the healing and the fresh start and the anew that this place hinders.

So, it's all going. The couches, the Christmas decor, the curtains, the throw pillows. Tediously, it's all been sorted. Every last thing touched and those that exude to0 powerful an emotion, they will find a new place of residence. One can't take the memories from one place and stick them in another and expect to not feel. So it has been painstakingly sorted to allow only what makes me smile, what fills my spirit, what brings me joy to go with me. A fresh start.

But sorting and digging through bins that housed our things hurt. They were boxes I closed when I was knee deep in my struggle. I closed them and hid them away not knowing what to do but knowing it was more than I could bear at the time. Our monogrammed Christmas stocking, the candle sticks from our wedding, gifts we had given, attire I had worn on special occasions, the very first piece of decor we bought when we moved in (a large, plastic, light up jack-o-lantern just in time for Halloween...blah). With opening every hidden away box, the memories crept out. And the anger. The sadness. The hurt. The longing, brokenness, and the remembrance of what once was. They hit full force. I knew they would. But I knew that once and for all, I had to sort so they don't lurk into the future. A fresh start unhindered by the past.

I cried. Cried might be a pretty way to say it. I sobbed. The kind where the chest burns so fiercely that you can't catch your breath. The kind where you expend every last ounce of energy being left curled up to depleted to even move. 

I did what I knew was best when I didn't know how to process all the feelings, I made an appointment with my counselor. I'm not ashamed or embarrassed or uncomfortable saying that. Please allow this public service announcement: life is hard and it is a-o-k to seek guidance when needed. More than ok, sometimes it is necessary. Counselors for president.

She validated this being yet another season of change, of unknown, of new for someone who longs for stability and predictability. A need to grieve both the physical space and the very last of a life that is no more. 

On to whatever the future holds.
Endless of possibilities.