How do you say goodbye to a house?

When I was a teenager, my family, which consisted of six kids ranging in ages from sixteen to three years old, moved out of the small yellow-brick Dutch Colonial where we had lived for most of our lives. Situated on a corner lot at a very busy intersection, the home’s most redeeming quality was that it faced a large community park. In the winter, the block-long green space featured a lighted ice-skating rink where my siblings and I spent many chilly afternoons. The summer months found us there scattered across playgrounds and ball fields involved in organized park and rec activities. In our young minds, “The Park” was a seamless extension of our tiny corner house and its postage-stamp front yard.

Our parents didn’t expect (maybe want?) us kids to come home until “the streetlights came on.” So short of that or our mother ringing us home with a large handbell, “The Park” was where we hung out. It was our social life, our exposure to nature and the outdoors, and a respite from the strict rules and chores at home. Even though my family moved to a larger house and safer suburb, our departure from that corner house felt like saying goodbye to a dear friend. 

I don’t remember our leave-taking. Perhaps this is because I was a teenager thrilled that our family’s relocation meant I finally got my own room. Had I lain in bed the last night memorizing the details of the cozy room I shared with my twin sister? Did I tiptoe down the steep front carpeted staircase and across the worn linoleum halls memorizing the features that guided me from unsteady toddler into vulnerable adolescent. Might I have cruised through “The Park” on moving day, reviewing the paths and fields where I’d learned to ride a bike, throw a ball, twirl on ice skates? Did I note the arching elms I’d scaled just to see if I could or glance at the gnarly evergreens that hid me during summer’s endless games of hide-and-seek?  I don’t recall. Certainly, the odd corner house and its surroundings merited such tender farewells.

How does one say goodbye to a house where significant memories are captured?

A few weeks ago, I moved out of the home my husband and I had purchased in Sarasota shortly after we received our second round of COVID-19 shots. The months of “sequestering in place” had made us weary of the tight quarters in our small hi-rise condo. Just like my parents had decided when I was a teenager, spreading out and entertaining family in a newer and bigger home felt like the right choice. It afforded us the opportunity to experience Bird Key’s bountiful bird and wildlife population firsthand. Like the home of my youth, the expanse of nature beyond the four corners of our house made my family’s world bigger and brighter and better.

But just as we settled in, my husband’s cancer returned with a vengeance. Six months after our move-in, I found myself alone in a home too big and complicated to manage on my own. The house was scenic and spacious, but mine were the only footsteps in too many empty rooms. My advisors counseled me to wait to the one-year anniversary of my husband’s death before deciding to stay or sell. For 365 days, I grappled with grief while staying on top of the home’s maintenance issues, getting my arms around complicated financial matters, and prepping for tax season. All tasks my husband used to oversee. 

In February of this year, I signed a purchase agreement for a new condo in Sarasota and listed my home for sale, something I had also never done without the help of my husband. With the support of my daughter and her family, I navigated house showings, inspections, and repairs. When it was time to box up my belongings, I took my time with every task, something I don’t believe I had done as a teenager when relocating from our childhood home. As I sorted clothing and documents, I thought about the memories associated with them. With each item, whether it got shredded or donated or saved, I honored it for its purpose and meaning. So many tiny farewells, but each soothed me in a way I had not expected. 

The night before I loaded my car for the final moveout, I walked through the house, lingering in each room as I teared up. I sat for a long time on the veranda, watching the moonlight dance on the bay and listening for the breathy sound of dolphins surfacing, the splash of mullets leaping. As my back pressed into the wicker lounger, I toasted to all the home’s glory, its magnificent views, and interior comforts. I acknowledged that the sadness I felt was a strong and true emotion, but that my decision to say goodbye to the house was in my best interest.

I think we leave a little bit of ourselves in every home we inhabit, but the memories we carry forward shape us and lead us into the kind of person we must become to tackle the next stage of our life’s journey.

Don’t miss a blog post!

Receive my blog posts directly to your inbox. 

Available on Amazon!