The Move That Made Me Face Everything I Never Said Out Loud
Moving isn't just cardboard boxes and disappearing tape dispensers. It's the quiet, complicated unraveling of every version of you that ever lived in a place.
It's childhood memories you thought you'd outgrown, suddenly resurfacing the moment the packing paper comes out.
It's grief for a life you built, anticipation for the life you're stepping into, and the strange pressure to hold everyone else together while you feel like you're coming undone.
For me, this story doesn't start in adulthood. It began when I was a third grader who'd lived in the same house for five solid years—long enough for it to feel like forever in “kid time”.
That was the year my dad left the States to live in London for a year. He wasn't abandoning me, and I know that now, but try telling that to a nine-year-old who watched her father disappear across an ocean.
That moment carved something into me that I'm still trying to name. I felt the ground shift beneath me for the first time, and moving became the thing I associated with being left behind.
Every move after that carried the same ache. You meet friends, you lose friends, you promise you'll keep in touch, and for a little while you do.
Then life stretches out, time passes, and suddenly everyone is living separate stories again. As a kid, I never really understood why my parents kept uprooting us.
I felt out of place, like my feelings were an afterthought in the decisions that shaped our entire lives.
It taught me to adjust quickly, but it also taught me that belonging was temporary.
There was one move, though, that left a deeper mark. We relocated to a small town where my whole extended family lived—cousins at school, grandparents under the same roof.
Even with my dad in London, that year felt magical in a way nothing else did. It was loud, chaotic, and full of memories that wrapped around me like a warm blanket.
But when he returned to the States, it wasn't to our state…and just like that, we were packing again.
That was the first time a move broke something in me I couldn't put words to. And I carried that wound quietly into adulthood.
Now, as a mom, I understand the emotional weight of moving in a completely different way. The hardest part this time wasn't the logistics, the chaos, or the endless to-do lists—it was watching my kids say goodbye to their schools.
Their last day of public school was this mix of excitement and heartbreak; they were thrilled about being homeschooled, but the grief of leaving behind something they loved was written all over their little faces.
I kept asking myself if I was doing the right thing, even though deep down, I knew I was.
What cracked me open most wasn't the big goodbyes—it was the small, tender moments—watching my kids thrive here in ways I never expected.
Seeing them make real friends, adore their teachers, and look forward to school every single day. My youngest fell utterly in love with taekwondo, and telling him it was his last class felt like stealing something from him.
My daughter didn't carry her sadness quietly at all. It came out sideways—through anger, outbursts, resentment, and tears that had nowhere to go.
She was easily set off, snapping at small things because the big thing was too big to name. And as her mom, I was walking that tightrope of giving her grace while still making it clear that the behavior wasn't okay.
It was hard. It was draining. But it was also the most honest expression of grief I've ever seen in a child. The only thing that steadied both kids, even a little, was knowing we'd be homeschooling.
And then there was the moment the movers arrived. My youngest woke up and immediately wanted to write a note to his teacher. He hadn't been to school in a week, but that was the first thing on his mind as the realness of the move set in.
Kids feel things so deeply, so sincerely, and sometimes it's their tenderness—not their tears—that breaks you.
Through it all, my husband has been my anchor. Our marriage doesn't fall apart under stress—we cling harder.
We spark a little, because who doesn't when the whole house is upside down? But he grounds me in ways I can't even articulate. And I needed that grounding the moment the movers walked in.
Watching strangers wrap up the pieces of our lives pulled me straight back into childhood. It hit me like a wave of déjà vu I wasn't prepared for, and I just… broke.
No warning. No control.
Just emotion pouring out of a place I thought had healed. What I haven't really said out loud is that I'm grieving more than just a move.
I'm grieving the safety I felt in this town—the kind that settles into your bones and makes you exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
I'm grieving the sunrises and sunsets that stopped me in my tracks. I'm grieving the traditions we built, like our Saturday park-hopping, which became one of my favorite parts of motherhood.
But the moment that hit the hardest was the last walk to the bus stop. When my husband came home, tears silent in his eyes after picking up our kindergartener, it gutted me.
That bus stop became part of our family rhythm, and watching that chapter close hurt in a way I didn't expect.
This move forced me to face a truth I've been dodging: I grieve things before they even end.
I pre-feel the loss. I imagine the empty rooms, the final goodbyes to teachers, the stuffed animals going into boxes, the last time sunlight hits a hallway.
And underneath all of it is a quieter fear—that maybe we won't get this exact version of our family again.
This season felt safe, predictable, steady. And letting it go feels like stepping off a cliff.
But there is one thing holding me together:
God told me not to worry.
And I'm choosing to believe Him.
Humor helps too—because if I don't laugh in the chaos, I absolutely will cry.
More than anything, I hope my kids remember this move as the start of a new adventure. I hope they remember how much their teachers loved them. How brave they were. How lucky they are to learn at home now, wrapped in comfort and curiosity instead of overwhelm.
