Back in September, I found the perfect house. It checked all of my boxes: enough space for the kids to each have their own bedrooms, a home office, and a fenced-in backyard. And, as icing on the cake, it’s not only in the kids’ current school zone but also within walking distance of their dad’s house. So, I made a choice: I finally decided to move out of the townhouse we’d been renting for over three years.

Moving is never an easy process. However, it’s much more complicated when you’re moving out of a home that holds countless memories involving a person who is no longer alive and breathing. 

In some ways, I felt ecstatic. We were finally getting the home that the kids and I have dreamed of for years. But, at the same time, moving meant packing, and packing meant going through everything we owned—including many of Emily’s things. 

A Home Filled With Grief

Emily and I “officially” moved in together in June 2022. Unofficially, she mostly moved into my place about a month after we started dating in 2021, but this was the first time we selected a place and signed a lease together. It was an exciting moment, and the beginning of building a beautiful life together (or so we thought).

Unfortunately, the townhouse we thought would be the cornerstone of our love soon became my storage unit of heartache and grief. Boxes sat unopened for nearly two years. The walls we planned to cover in pictures and artwork remained blank slates. Her purse rested in the exact place I threw it when I returned from the hospital until we began packing to move out. 

Oftentimes, I felt like I was walking into a wasteland frozen in time each time I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. It wasn’t home — it was a constant reminder of the life I lost. It was both my sanctuary from the world at large and a prison of isolation. I used any possible excuse to avoid being there, but also locked myself in there for days on end as a form of self-torture.

And yet, when I shoved the final box of items in my trunk and locked the door for the final time this past Friday, I spent the entire drive to the new house sobbing.

Preserving What Was Lost

I was a college freshman when my grandmother died, so I was old enough to comprehend everything that was happening, even if I didn’t fully understand the motives behind it. That was especially true during the weeks and months after she passed, and my grandfather was left to pick up the pieces. 

I remember my parents talking about how my grandfather refused to let anyone take away or even touch any of my grandmother’s things. This remained the case for nearly 20 years until my grandfather finally joined my grandma in death just over a month ago. When I visited him this past July, I felt like I had time-traveled, because the entire house looked exactly the way it did that final Christmas my grandma was alive. 

Before I lost Emily, I didn’t really understand. Why would someone want to surround themselves with endless reminders of the love they lost? Wouldn’t you want to eventually move forward? 

Here’s what I now know: my grandfather wasn’t avoiding life in the present or future. He was merely preserving my grandma’s existence. 

I think it is common for many of us to want to preserve the memories of those we love after their bodies leave this earth. After all, isn’t that why cemeteries exist? (Feel free to correct me on this; I didn’t do any research.) 

In my case, and my grandfather’s as well, any type of change or forward momentum feels like it’s erasing our loved one’s existence. If I rearrange the furniture in our bedroom, it’s no longer “our room,” because we no longer exist as a unit. Donating her clothing removes any proof she ever lived there. The list goes on and on. 

But is that really true? No. No, it isn’t. Because as long as I’m alive, I’ll make sure her existence is never forgotten.

Bittersweet New Beginnings

As I continue to peel back the layers of grief I cocooned around myself, I’ve realized a universal truth we can never escape: life moves on. And while the forward momentum is often enjoyable and necessary, it’s also bittersweet.

Over the past three months, I have made some tough decisions. I’ve thrown away notebooks filled with her handwriting, put clothing and other miscellaneous items in donation bins and boxes for a future yard sale. And through it all, there have been countless tears, angry outbursts, and a heartache that I can never possibly begin to describe in words.

But you know what? I know that somewhere in Heaven, Emily is watching this all unfold, beaming with pride.