Four weeks ago, I was awash with a mixture of emotions. Fear of the unknown, nostalgia, grief, anticipation, all of it bound up in the challenge of moving forward, moving on, and leaving behind.
Now we’ve been settling into our new home for two weeks, and it feels right. The sunlight pours in the windows, my (substantially reduced) book collection lines the walls, the new couch mixes with my grandmother’s china teacups and the copper canisters my stepmother gave me. I’ve already made baked ziti and meatball subs in my new kitchen, and the first of many batches of chocolate chip cookies. My parents and my sister have visited several times, and one of my girls’ dear friends has ridden her bike over twice already.
When people have asked me over the past few weeks how I’m doing, I usually answer with some form of, “Good, but moving is the worst.” I still have to unpack to do, especially in my own bedroom, and we don’t have dining room chairs yet. The walls are still pretty blank, and there are still fears and sorrow ahead in this new phase of my life.
But when I unlock the door and step inside, I know I’m home, and it’s such a wonderful feeling.