I got a new job yesterday. It’s what I’ve been wanting for months, maybe years. Genuinely, I am so honored they selected me out of all the applicants and it’s less stress than I have now and allows me to live in a city (Corpus Christi) with a HomeGoods and Target (because, priorities…) instead of a small town with two Dollar Generals.
So, then why am I up at 5:45 am on a Wednesday, sick to my stomach, crying in my home office?
We’re going to have to sell our house. The house I’ve painstakingly worked on with my husband for nearly six years. SIX YEARS. We have so many memories here. My niece’s first birthday party. My bestie and I playing Just Dance in the living room. Creating a blog home office since this blog is totally not a phase and such an important part of my life. Hosting our first big Thanksgiving. Sitting around the Christmas tree in the living room. Drinking beers on the back patio during thunderstorms. Blissfully watching hours of Netflix shows cuddled on the couch together as the laundry piled up.
It’s killing me to think about leaving this place. Killing me. My heart is breaking because I am angry I had to leave in the first place.
Monica Wants It started right before my wedding as a way to chronicle all the domestic things I wanted after we got married. Overpriced bird measuring cups from Anthropologie was one of my first posts. I chronicled the desire to own a home like many women chronicle their desire to have a child. This house is my baby.
And then there’s my other babies Pee Wee and Daniel. I won’t get to see them everyday. I won’t get to come home for lunch and cuddle with Pee Wee while watching Food Network. I won’t get to kiss my husband everyday when I come home from work and ask him if he’s asleep when I know he really is asleep because I just want to talk a little more before going to sleep. I won’t be with my family everyday anymore for who knows how long.
Realistically I know there will be another house…someday. Realistically I know that being away from D and PW is temporary and hopefully won’t last more than a few months. Realistically I know millions of people have done this very same thing and not only SURVIVED, but are better for it.
For the next year or so, we’ll be living in an apartment again which is something I swore I never wanted to do. But sacrifices must be made for career advancement and mental health, right?
Over the next few weeks I’ll chronicle our journey of selling this home (we hope to be on the market in October) and I’ll be prepping to move into an apartment mid-September. Daniel and Pee Wee will follow me soon, and in the meantime I’ll get to come home on weekends to help get the house market ready, love on my boys, and enjoy more beers on the back patio while I can.
Selling our house is another special kind of stress because all of these improvements we’ve made have been for this moment. We hope our sweat equity has paid off enough to give us a decent amount to stash in savings for the next house we buy, hopefully in 2018.
Someone tell me the heartache of leaving a house will ease with time? Am I crazy to feel this way?
Change is scary.