Aside from the steady patter of rain on the roof and the low hum of the washing machine downstairs, the house is surprisingly quiet as I write. We were up early this morning, chatted with our son who’s living overseas (yes, you really can call someone on Facebook these days), my husband left for work a little ahead of us, and now I have a hot cup of coffee and a few peaceful minutes to myself.
It hit me this morning that exactly one week from today we’ll wake up in our new house for the very first time. We’ve been counting down for months, but now that the day is so close the whole thing feels a little surreal. I’ve developed a fresh respect for people whose jobs require frequent moves — the emotional work of leaving is heavier than I expected.
The emotional side of moving really shows up in unexpected ways:
- Packing and unpacking every single thing;
- Sorting, purging, and wandering down memory lane;
- Falling in love with a home and a neighborhood and finally settling in — then having to unsettle it all again.
The cycle of settling and then unsettling is surprisingly tender. You unpack memories along with boxes, and then you pack them away again.
Our landlord stopped by yesterday and, honestly, that visit was one of the best motivators I could’ve asked for. There’s nothing like the thought of getting your damage deposit back to nudge you into action. I spent the afternoon filling boxes, vacuuming floors, scrubbing walls, and wiping down shelves until things looked and felt refreshed.
Once I started, packing moved faster than I expected. My husband took care of logistics — booking the moving truck, arranging transfers for phone and utilities, and tackling the mountain of paperwork that comes with changing addresses. In between lists and labels, we’ve been checking items off our moving checklist and smoothing out the small details that make a move less chaotic.
Compared to previous moves, I’m calmer this time. I’ve tried to be as organized as possible, but I also know that moving is inherently unpredictable. Part of staying sane is accepting that not everything will go exactly to plan and being ready to adapt when it doesn’t.
As boxes are filled, labeled, and stacked, we’ve deliberately kept one corner of the house untouched until the very last minute:
The living room.
It’s been cleaned, fluffed, and arranged so it feels inviting and composed. Leaving that single room intact gives us a small oasis amid the boxes — a familiar spot to sit, to breathe, and to remember why we love this house as we prepare to move it to the next chapter.
There’s comfort in keeping one room as it is — a small anchor during a time of transition. That familiar space makes the unsettling moments easier to bear and gives us a clean, cozy place to regroup before we face the boxes again.
So we go on — tidy, pack, organize, and make lists — but also sit for a few moments in the living room, sip our coffee, and remember that in just one week this house will become our new home. The strange mix of mourning and anticipation is part of the process, and keeping a simple, lovely corner unchanged helps carry us through.