Prologue
I am currently reading Isabel Klee’s book Boys, Dogs and Other Things I’ve Cried About, and it has inspired me in such a profound way. Maybe because I relate so deeply to her experiences with dogs, and her meeting her soul mate.
Writing is something I have always loved to do. I still have dreams—albeit not many concrete steps yet of making them happen—of writing a book.
For whatever reason, last night while I was watching TV with my husband, words just started flowing within me. I hopped out of bed at 10:30pm and started typing them out furiously.
I’m not entirely sure how cohesive this blog is, or even if I fully know what my message is yet. But I feel compelled and drawn to share it anyway. Maybe it’s simply my way of giving myself a kick in the ass to start writing something.
Whenever you decide to sell your house, that house isn’t yours anymore. I mean, sure contractually and financially it is but on a more spiritual level it no longer belongs to you. The second you make that decision to sell, you are simply holding space until the next person finds it. Everything you do from that point forward is strictly strategic. The little touches that get fixed up, the new lighting, or painting over your favorite but maybe not crowd pleasing wall colors. It is getting ready for someone to see the possibilities of what can be. For them. Not you. Because for better or for worse, you know your time there has come to a close.
Not to mention the cast of people who will come into your space, most of the time when you are not there. I have never enjoyed the selling process knowing strangers were in my home, amongst my things, sitting on my couch, making decisions at my dining table. I know that happens because I have been on that side. When I have bought homes, I have walked through someone’s space, checking for imperfections or signs of mouse droppings or water bugs (or maybe that’s just me as those fears are real). I have opened closets where someone’s wardrobes are and running shoes lay. I have had discussions with my realtors and inspectors standing in someone else’s home, not yet mine but not really theirs anymore either.
It always feels invasive. To come home and see scuff marks on the floor, or a door closed that you usually leave ajar. To smell a candle that had burned for the ambience of calmness that you did not light.
It feels eerie.
It doesn’t feel like home anymore.
It’s not your space. It now belongs to realtors, house hunters, inspectors, appraisers, contractors. But it no longer belongs to you. Not in a soulful way.
The first two times I sold my homes, I was full of optimism and hope. I was excited for what was ahead of me even if I had no idea what it would be. Or how it would happen. There is an element of embracing, being excited even, of what is yet to come.
Buying is also stressful and all consuming.
I sold my condo because I grew tired and weary of having shared walls. I dreaded the sounds of my neighbors above me, signs that they were home and I did not know if I would hear yelling or if it would be eerily quiet. I feared an uncomfortable encounter or that I would receive another abrasive, nasty email.
It was time to go. Not only did my immediate space not feel like mine, I had no safety when I opened my front door or stood on my patio. I had no control over what was out there. And I was ready to leave that prickly, uncomfortable energy behind.
When I sold my house in Long Beach, those feelings were the same. Side note to self, I need to dig deep and evaluate why I picked two consecutive homes that ended up being surrounded by neighbors I really struggled to live alongside. People who didn’t seem to respect shared living spaces or neighborly boundaries, and who often came across as entitled in ways that felt draining to be around.
I was ready to leave that too. And that time, I was leaving with my three beautiful, sweet rescue dogs: Ian, River and Cinny
We had a weekend of showings and a few in the days following. Every time, I had to load my dogs into my car and go somewhere to pass the time while prospective buyers were in my house. I had to hide water and food bowls in cabinets and tuck dog beds and toys into closets. I had to make sure no traces of my dogs, my life were there. It was a really weird knowing that my memories would leave with me when we moved.
While I would sit outside on my deck every morning, drinking tea from a local coffee shop, watching my dogs play, lounge and just exist in my backyard, it brought me the purest form of joy. For the next person or family coming in, those memories would not exist to them. They might be sitting out on the same deck at dusk instead of when the sun is out, trading a tea for a glass of chardonnay. It was my space no more.
The most unimaginable paradox though was that while I was leaving my house of two years and a state (California) I adored, I was welcoming a new love into my life.
And no it wasn’t another dog.
It was my soul mate. My love. He came at the most unexpected time. Amidst the chaos of packing up my belongings and getting ready for what was to come next, my future husband literally walked through my door.
You can read more details on our love story here.
Flash forward just a year and a half later, my now husband, Jon—the same love who I met as I was exiting California—were selling our first home together on the other side of the country in Richmond, Virginia. The very house that just two and a half months after meeting we married on the deck of. Moving was truly the hardest breakup of my life—with the house, to be clear. My husband and I are still going strong.
That house had everything we needed for ourselves and our blended family (five dogs that now include Bea and Leo and two cats, Alice and Nadia). We had a big property with a lot of privacy. We had a house that felt like our oasis and sanctuary. We had neighbors we revered. We had so much that we ever could need in a home.
Alas, we were not meant to be there long term and that is something that I understood quickly. It didn’t make it any emotionally easier though to leave a house that I loved.
Though the last few months before we left, my husband was already out the door. Not because of u, but because financially we could not make it work in Richmond. He had to make the tough choice to take a job in Maryland that was far enough that he could not commute there daily. So every Sunday, sometimes at 3:00pm, sometimes at 7pm, he would make the 2 hour drive to Maryland and not come back until Friday night.
We were still newlyweds at that time. And that is not to say we were living in a honeymoon fantasy, because I assure you we were not. We had a lot of life hit us fast because of the nature of how we met and all the big life changes we made to be together.
To be apart five days a week from my husband was incredibly difficult. I sobbed every time I would kiss him goodbye before he would drive away back to Maryland. I would turn to go back inside to see the apprehensive faces of our three big dogs Ian, Cinny and River, watching from a window overlooking the driveway. They felt the loss of him leaving with a tinge of worry that I too was leaving.
I would come into our big house that felt so empty without him yet so full of life because we have a lot of animals. I would go up a few steps into our living room to see the sad faces of our two little dogs who felt the shift of his absence.
We would finish the mundane tasks of our day and begin our nightly routine. I would kiss my big dogs good night then ascend to our bedroom where Bea was waiting in the hallway laying on her belly, hoping and waiting for her dad to come home. My heart hurt for her because I knew I couldn’t replace him in that moment. And so I would climb into bed with our little dog, Leo, and eventually Bea would relent and jump up to be with us. Usually Alice (our cat) would be lying across my chest with her nose and face as close to mine as she could physically get and I could feel her breath. To my right was my love Nadia (our other cat) resuming her nightly spot curled up in a ball right next to me. And so we slept like that. Every night until Fridays. A bed full of so much love yet so obvious Jon was missing.
And while we slept all cuddled together, Jon slept in a basement apartment solo wishing he was home with us while trying to mentally get ready for his week ahead.
And then that pattern resumed for a few months until it was time to get our house ready to sell.
Our home was gone even if I hadn’t left yet.
When I think about what my husband means to me or when I get asked how did I know so quickly he was the one? How was I so confident that marrying him after just 2 and a half months was the best decision I would ever make?
I knew it because Jon brought me and still does a sense of peace, a feeling of being safe. Of being home.
The best way I can describe what it feels like to being with the love of my life is there is this level of conciousness where he is always with me. He is never far from my mind and not in an obsessive way. It’s like how you breathe without thinking about how to. You just do. It’s the same with Jon. He just exists within me in the same way. He is part of me and is with me always. He is home.
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