Nearly seven years ago, I stood alone in the middle of our new house amidst a sea of boxes and cried a torrent of tears. As I sobbed uncontrollably, I kept saying, both to myself and aloud, I want to go home. I just want to go home. The problem was that I was home, but it definitely didn’t feel like home.
At that time, it was six years after my divorce, and I had to make the difficult decision to downsize, as I could no longer comfortably afford the mortgage and upkeep of our home. So, I did what was right for my two daughters and myself. However, it was a situation when doing the right thing was not the easiest thing.
I loved our old home, and I thought that it would be our forever home. It wasn’t, though. Following the divorce, I reluctantly started to accept that I would need to move at some point. My ideal plan was to stay there until my youngest daughter graduated from high school, or at least, until my oldest daughter did. Three years shy of my oldest daughter’s high school graduation, though, I realized that I needed to move sooner than later. So, my plan of staying there went out the window, while the For Sale sign went up in the front yard.
This new house was absolutely perfect for the girls and me (and our two cats). It was in a fantastic location, had been renovated, and was in move-in ready condition, yet, I still found myself in tears that first night. Not being able to financially remain in our old house left me feeling defeated, ashamed, and even embarrassed, and I felt like a failure. I remember feeling like this new house would never feel like home to me. Little did I know how very wrong I was, and I am so grateful for that.
As we settled into this new home, I slowly started to love and appreciate it more and more. We were safe and comfortable there, and it became a place that we filled with new memories and lots of love and joy. It also became my safe haven that allowed me to heal from some painful endings and embrace unexpected new beginnings.
One of those unexpected beginnings was reconnecting with one of my college friends, who is now my husband. When we got married two years ago, people often asked if we were going to move, and by this time, we both loved that house and planned on staying there. As time passed and our family grew, we decided that we wanted to tweak our house to provide us with a bit more space to make it more functional. As we explored what it would take to make the changes we envisioned, we quickly discovered that there were structural and financial constraints.
Shortly after scrapping the plans to renovate the house, our realtor let us know a house around the corner was getting ready to go on the market. He is the same realtor who helped me sell the last house and buy the new house, and we have stayed in touch over the years. In fact, he was the one who gave us a referral for the home renovations, and when that fell through, I let him know that we may be interested in moving. There was a catch, though. We wanted to stay in our current neighborhood. This may not sound like that big of a catch, but it was for a number of reasons.
Our neighborhood is not that large, and there are not a lot of houses in it that met our criteria, in terms of size and layout. However, when our realtor told us about the house that was getting ready to come on the market, I thought that this was a sign that we had found our next forever home. It wasn’t.
The house needed a lot of updating for a lot of money. We didn’t want a fixer upper and definitely didn’t want to invest that much money in the house from the jump. I had gotten my hopes up, so when it didn’t pan out, I felt really disappointed.
When a neighbor asked us if we were going to buy that house, I shared with him why weren’t going to pursue it, along with my disappointment. He reassured me by saying, Be patient. Another house will come along. While I appreciated his optimism, I didn’t believe it.
My husband and I decided that we would stay put and continue to find ways to make it work for our family, and we felt like maybe we were meant to stay there. It turns out, we weren’t.
Our neighbor was right. A house next door to the fixer upper came on the market less than a week later, and to make an already long story a bit shorter, we bought it the day after it went on the market. That same neighbor is the one who alerted me that it was for sale, and now, we live across the street from each other.
This house is the first home my husband and I have purchased together, and we want this to be a home where our family and friends can gather and help us make new memories. The entire buying and selling process took about one month from start to finish, so it all feels surreal still. Another thing that felt surreal was what happened the night after we moved in to the new house.
I found myself looking around at all of the boxes and feeling a somewhat familiar pang of grief. I missed our old house. I was somewhat surprised, but as I thought back on our seven years there, it began to make much more sense. I entered that house as a divorced mom of two teenage daughters, and I left it as a married empty nester who now is a mom to seven children and a grandmother to one grandchild. So much transpired during these past seven years, and through it all that little house, my little house, was there for me.
It provided me with not only shelter and a safe place to raise my daughters, but it provided me with a safe haven for my body, mind, and spirit. I took refuge there to heal from a broken heart, recover from breast cancer, grieve the loss of three of my bad ass friends, change careers, fall in love again, and so much more. It gave me a renewed sense of independence, as it was the first home that I ever bought on my own, and it was an opportunity to have a much-needed fresh start.
At the time, it was perfect for us, and now, it’s time for it to be perfect for another divorced mom and her two children, who moved into it. It may no longer be our home, but it will always be the house that rebuilt me, and for that, I am forever grateful.
