This exodus, from a town I have resided for over a decade and this simple little building, is vital. For the last several years I have felt stifled and alienated as my friends have moved away, my plans for education and professional pursuit have changed dramatically, and the area has offered little in the way of viable opportunities for personal progress. The move will offer better employment opportunities, a change of scenery and fresh eyes, and all surrounded by family and friends. New adventures await and I am invigorated by the very chance, the sheer serendipity that allowed my family this moment to play out.
Three weeks now have been spent in harried chaos: making repairs, painting, upgrading, packing, showing our house, more repairs, lots of driving, viewing homes, making bids, taking rejections, thinking we got a house and having to relinquish the contract after inspection, more viewings, more bids, more packing, monkey wrenches, and trying to squeeze in time with the few remaining people I see here with any degree of regularity. We have had limited sleep and limited comfort. Boxes have been piled in our garage and throughout our house. Moving is considered among the top three most stressful common things people go through, along with death and divorce. Communicating that to my three year old child has been an added challenge, as order and stability are important to feelings of comfort and confidence in children. Having an anxiety disorder, I have certainly felt the weight of this particularly hectic limbo.
But as I look around me this morning with the empty rooms and boxes mostly removed, at the kitchen with disposable plates and plasticware, a vacant closet aside from a pair of shoes and a couple days' worth of clothes and nothing further to really do until it's time to go, everything is peaceful. And for the first moment since we made the decision to move, I think about what all I am leaving behind.
In six and a half years in this house, there has been more literal blood, sweat, and tears than I could have possibly fathomed when they handed us the keys. Two months after we closed, my husband and I married. We used our honeymoon money to renovate what we could on our house, all DIY. New paint, new fixtures, a giant facelift on a budget. I finished my bachelor's degree that summer where I met an instructor who became one of my best friends. I worked a social service job and was traumatized by a child-offender against his mother while attempting a home visit. I went back to graduate school. I learned I found joy in teaching. I began my first academic research foray into gender and sexual identity from a social justice research perspective. My beautiful niece was born, and the same day I discovered I was pregnant. My pregnancy became a running joke about whether my thesis or pregnancy due date would come first. I published my first peer-reviewed literature. We welcomed our little girl. I met Monica Roberts, a prominent and brilliant advocate for transgender rights who became a friend and hero and shaped my future advocacy profoundly. I defended my thesis. I graduated with my Master's in Sociology and started doctoral work. One of two best friends married the love of her life. I suffered postpartum depression, which led to over a year separated from my husband. My daughter took her first steps, said her first word, got her first teeth in this home. I experienced heartbreak I was unprepared for at the hands of malicious colleagues which led to a drastic decline in my health. I suffered a near-fatal adrenal failure. My other best friend married her long-time boyfriend. I was awarded the 2014 Ally of the Year honor by a national transgender advocacy and resource nonprofit. I made the hardest decision of my life and walked away from academia for my family and my health. I went through the grueling process of self-deconstruction to figure out who I was without that huge piece of my identity. And I began the healing process of putting myself back together.
And just yesterday, my best friend gave birth to the most beautiful baby boy you've ever seen. Life renewed.
When realtors and renovators use housing lingo, they talk about the bones of a house. What they mean is the very structure, the load-bearing beams, the layout, the general flow of the actual building. But as I leave these particular bones, I am reminded of something more. This house has breathed with us. Cried with us. Laughed with us. It has protected us. It has been kind to us. It has been the one consistent and steadfast thing in our lives since we took ownership. And I don't think you can really leave something like that behind. The house is a part of us now, just like we are a part of it. It is family. And no matter where we go, there will always be a gratitude for our very first home.
Goodbye house. Thank you for everything.
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