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There’s something very strange about unraveling a life you spent 30 years building. Not bad strange. Not even necessarily sad strange (but yes, maybe a little sad). It’s just…disorienting in a way I don’t think people fully understand until they’re in the middle of it themselves (which is me, right now, at this very moment).
For the last few months, I’ve been sorting through drawers, closets, cabinets, bins, shelves, random junk shoved into other random junk, and all I can think is, wow. We really lived here. Not just existed. We lived here.
We survived teenagers here. Celebrated birthdays here. Burned dinners here. Bought furniture we thought was going to be “the good furniture” forever. Stayed up too late on Christmas Eve. Painted walls. Repainted walls because the first color looked weird at 4:00 in the afternoon (Bee’s room). Met our first grand-baby here, and then our second (I mean how crazy is it that they were both born while living in this house under completely different circumstances?). Built routines and traditions and entire seasons of life here without even realizing we were doing it at the time.
And now here I am trying to decide whether I need three crockpots and a basket full of tangled phone chargers from 2009 (or maybe even before that, what is this cord anyway?).
Which honestly feels like a pretty accurate metaphor for life in late your 40s.
Because it’s not just stuff. That’s the part I didn’t fully expect. You start packing boxes and suddenly it’s not about the boxes at all. It’s the harsh realization that time has passed. A lot of it. Fast. And somehow all at once.
One minute you’re bringing babies home from the hospital, and the next you’re wrapping an odd number of glasses in packing paper (because a few got broken over the years) while your grown daughter texts you about dinner plans and toddler behavior.
Sometimes I wonder how I got here so quickly.
It’s all so emotional in this weird layered and mixed-up way. I’m genuinely excited about what’s next. I really am. I can already picture our new life. New routines. Different weather. Different pace. Different holidays. Different views outside the kitchen window with the Tiffany-style stained glass pendant I insisted on having.
There’s so much excitement there. But you know what? There’s grief too.
And the weird thing is, I think they can both exist at the same time, even though nobody really prepares you for that part. Because even when change is good, even when you chose it, prayed for it, and fought hard for it, there’s still a version of your life that’s ending.
And that’s what I’ve been noticing lately. All of those little endings.
The last grocery trip to the store you’ve gone to for 25 years. The last time the sun hits your family room slider a certain way in the late afternoon. The last grand-baby sleepover that you didn’t even realize was the last one. The last Christmas in a house that held so much of your life.
Sometimes it stops me in my tracks. I’ll be fine one minute and then suddenly emotional over something ridiculous like an old measuring cup or tiny handprints on my sliding glass door (which I have yet to clean off, by the way).
Human beings are so weird.
But I also think this is what growth actually feels like. It’s not confident or glamorous. And it’s wildly unpredictable.
Sometimes it looks like sitting on the floor surrounded by humongous donation piles wondering why throwing away old sweaters, dried up paint cans, and stale food from the pantry feels emotionally aggressive. And you know what? Sometimes it looks like uncertainty.
Because as exciting as change can be, there’s vulnerability in realizing you can’t fully picture the other side yet. You have no idea what your days will look like. You don’t know what parts of yourself will feel the same and what parts won’t.
You just know you’re moving forward anyway. Maybe that’s adulthood. Or maybe that’s what faith looks like. Not certainty. Just willingness. Willingness to let life evolve. Willingness to outgrow past versions of yourself and to leave behind something good because maybe, just maybe, something meaningful is waiting ahead too.
I don’t have some perfect ending for this story yet because honestly, I’m still smack dab in the middle of it (and trying to process it all). But I do know this, some days I feel completely ready. Other days I feel sentimental about my dry cleaner. And sometimes I feel both within a five-minute span, haha.
Underneath it all though, I’m incredibly grateful for the life we built here, the memories, the friendships, and most importantly, the people we became over the last 30 years.
And at the same time, I’m excited to see what’s next for us.
