No one talks about the trouble of transition.
How when you sort through your worldly possessions and move them into piles and then into boxes and then into a vehicle—it’s like taking stock of your life.
Am I the sum of my possessions? What do my things say about my life? If a stranger had to do this for me, what would they learn about my life values and losses and loves?
The touching of things forgotten rediscover memories, associations, sadnesses, joys,…more than you meant to find. Most items hold a story that comes alive with a touch, and rather than just moving things into boxes, I’m moving stories. Whole stories. Whole stories are weighty.
This was supposed to be cut and dried. Physical things shoved into boxes and bags to be carried into the new home, but instead, memories tap the shoulder. Remember me? Remember when roommates giggled long into the night over cat videos? Remember holding this mug and crying into the dishwater on a random weeknight? Remember this blanket that used to be your swaddling hug in the midst of scary days when life seemed surely impossible when money was in the negative and the fridge stood empty?
And the journey of packing becomes intensely personal.
Or maybe that’s just me?
My things are a journal all their own. While to others, it’s just a chair. To me, it’s my haven for thinking, pondering, reading, and exploring my internal world. It’s morning’s consistent hug on winter days, and it’s the summer day’s spot for ice cream. How do things become memories?
Moving is tiring. Not only exhaustion by the physicality of constantly moving to condense a room into a cardboard box–but an unexpected emotional toll too.
Releasing stuff—like, “why in the world do I have this random thing that I never use?”
Choosing things, saying, “I don’t need this anymore, but its sentimental value is still important to me.” So you keep it. And that’s okay.
It’s not simple. The mental tallying of furniture, clothing, books—all demanding that decisions be made about where each goes so that it can be refound in the new space.
Whether you’re moving across town, states, or countries, a transition is a wearying work. It leaves you depleted, draped across a half-dismantled piece of furniture, heart-worn and internally tearful. It saps the sunshine joy from your bones when you come awake in the early hours of the day.
Settling into your new life and home demands your energy too. Finding a new home for each of your things—more decisions. Making new routines. It’s tough work, monotonous and boring, but oh so necessary. Wiggling your life into a new space–taking up room again–is overwhelming, especially when you can’t find things. You know you packed it, but where did it go?
So as you move through transition, whether it was your choice or not, be gentle with yourself.
Drink another cup of tea.
Check-in with your body in the morning.
Take a catnap.
Whatever you do, don’t rush yourself to be okay faster than you need to.
Leave a Reply