The Last Thing on My List
For months, moving after loss has sat on my horizon like the last mountain I knew I’d eventually have to climb.
After Greg died last October, I made a mental list of everything I needed to do just to get by. There were urgent things, and there were hard things, and then there were just “the things” that eventually had to get done. I cleaned out his closet and took back parts of my apartment, little pieces at a time. I sorted through his things and put away the reminders of a past life.
After the immediate tasks of October were over, I was left with the ongoing, unending process of learning how to be alone again. But here, I was adapting to living in a place where every room serves as a constant reminder of both good and bad memories. Some memories were traumatic, while other memories I hope I always remember. Throughout this period, as I was navigating these challenges, one final item remained on my mental list: moving. Moving was always the final task, persistently overshadowing everything from that time until now. Now, the moment to move has arrived.
Why I Couldn’t Sign the Lease
I did the work I was dreading. I found an apartment just a few blocks away. I was approved. All I had to do was sign the lease. And I couldn’t. I missed the deadline. Again, I froze. The leasing office finally called because Saturday had come and gone and I still hadn’t signed it. Even after they called, I put it off until later that afternoon.
I kept asking myself why. Did I not want the apartment? No. Did I not want a fresh start? No. That wasn’t it either. I think I just didn’t want to do the work. The physical work of packing boxes and either hiring movers or asking for help. That scares me, but so does the hidden emotional work as well. The hidden, inevitable part of this moving process is sitting in a brand-new apartment surrounded by boxes and realizing I have to build a home all over again. I have to unpack not just my belongings, but my life. That feels overwhelming.
When One Mistake Feels Like Failure
Lately, everything feels overwhelming. I overslept and missed my therapy appointment. When I finally logged on, my therapist stayed long enough for us to connect, but then my phone died. I plugged it in, got back on for a few minutes, and it died again.
I felt like such a fuck up. Not because my therapist made me feel that way. She didn’t, at all. But because somewhere inside me, there’s still a voice that tells me if I disappoint someone, even unintentionally, I’ve failed. Then yesterday I realized I had slept through one of Odin’s walks. He had held it as long as he could, but eventually he peed and pooped on the floor. I couldn’t be mad at him. It was way past the time I usually take him out. So instead, I cried because I felt like I was failing him too.
A Nervous System at Capacity
It’s amazing how quickly grief and exhaustion can convince me that one mistake somehow erases a thousand loving, caring things I’ve done before it. My therapist keeps reminding me to tackle the big things in small pieces. I thought she was talking about moving, as we often relate it to daily challenges and the act of just “doing”. Now I think she’s talking about life. Because maybe I’m not procrastinating. Maybe my nervous system has simply reached its capacity.
The past several years have held more than I ever imagined one life could. I lost Eric. I rebuilt. I found hope again with someone else. Then I lost him too. Since then, I have wrestled with multiple challenges: navigating PTSD and grief, engaging in therapy, adapting to changes in medication, facing financial and work-related changes, managing a disability claim, and searching for a sense of belonging—all while preparing to leave another home connected to loss.
The Apartment That Held My Grief
I suddenly realized why signing a lease felt impossible. Maybe the problem isn’t that I’m weak. Moving after loss isn’t just about changing addresses; it’s about carrying everything you’ve survived into a place that has never known your pain. I’ve just been carrying too much for too long. This apartment has held some of the darkest moments of my life over the past two years. It also has held healing.
I reclaimed Greg’s closet. I replaced rugs. I took down some of the woodworking he built. None of those things were really about closets or rugs or walls. They were small acts of reclaiming a space that had become frozen in grief. I have cried on these floors more times than I can count. Again, I learned to sit in silence. And still, yet again, I learned that I could survive alone.
In many ways, this apartment saved me. And maybe that’s why leaving feels so complicated. I’m grateful for everything I’ve felt here, everything I’ve learned here, and the ways this apartment has quietly helped me grow. I’m also ready to stop reliving the same memories, especially the ones that are triggered and I am unprepared for. I don’t think moving means leaving anyone or anything behind. I think it means giving myself the chance to make new memories that don’t have to compete with the old ones.
One Small Piece at a Time
I still don’t feel strong. My emotions are all over the place. I’m more irritable than I’m used to being. Some days I wonder why everything feels so much harder than it should. But maybe healing isn’t asking more of ourselves. Maybe healing is recognizing when we’ve already asked enough.
Whenever I’ve felt a certain way about my grief or anxiety, I’m often reminded by the universe that I am not the only one existing in this space, feeling what I feel. If you’re reading this and you’ve convinced yourself you’re failing because you can’t seem to keep up, or add up to what you think you should be, maybe consider another possibility.
Maybe you’re trying harder than you realize.
Maybe your capacity is smaller than your responsibilities right now.
Maybe you don’t need to do everything today.
Maybe today means doing just one small thing, even if it’s for yourself.
Tomorrow, it’s just one more small thing.
Then, the day after that, maybe you rest.
I’m learning that moving after loss isn’t one extraordinary act of strength. It’s a hundred small decisions made one at a time.
Sometimes it just means showing up in small ways until, one day, you look around and see you’ve built a life again.
Not all at once.
One small piece at a time.
Thanks for reading. I love you all –xxooC
