Moving Through Life

Tis the season to be packing ... again

We’re in the middle of moving again. Boxes everywhere, packing tape in all corners of this tiny house, and Sharpies that keep going missing. The dogs are anxious, circling our feet and following us from room to room, making sure we don’t leave them behind.

As if.

This is an unexpected, unplanned move. Our landlords decided—after just a year—to sell the house we’re renting, but luckily, Julie found another adorable cottage for us to live in. It’s just a mile or so away and closer to Gus. Perfect, really. But it is still another move.

Before my divorce was final—a year and a half after coming out—I moved from our lake house into a cute, little space in Perrysburg—the very first place I ever lived in alone, as the only adult in charge. A year later, a job required a move back to Indiana, and I ended up in an apartment in Zionsville. Then I moved to downtown Indy to be closer to work, then I moved to a cheaper apartment on the North side of Indy. When Julie’s renter decided not to renew, we moved to her condo in Lexington. We then decided to buy and travel in an Ember RV, and Julie sold her condo. The Ember leaked like a sieve, so we had to move in and out of it twice while the floors were replaced. We eventually traded it for a Grand Design Solitude, and after a year in that rig, we moved back to Lexington, into our current house. Now we’re moving again. For those keeping track, that’s ten moves in eight years, and my body feels every bit of it.

But the part that feels it the most is my heart. It feels displaced, unsettled, adrift. During those same eight years, I also lost my marriage, all my kids to college, an uncle, a cousin, my mom, my only sister, my biological dad, and my stepdad. For those keeping track, that’s a lot of loss. Immeasurable amounts of it, really.

Yesterday, as I was packing, I took a little angel figurine off my bookshelf. My old babysitter gave it to my when Mom died. I hang an ornament from it—one my step-siblings gave to me—with Mom’s beautiful face on it. Hanging next to it is the hummingbird my sweet friend, Jan, gave me after Mom’s death. And recently balanced beside it, Bob’s funeral card. His sweet smile greets me every time I walk by. I placed those precious items carefully into a box and felt the immense weight of it.

It was heavier than all my boxes of books combined.

This winter, I have felt a vast, frozen tundra in the middle of my body, void of warmth and belonging. As is my usual M.O., I have tried to fill it with ice cream, to stuff it with chocolates and carbs and wine. And we all know how that ends. The hole is still there, and the space around it has expanded by yet another 20 pounds, a pre-diabetes diagnosis, and a spine so compromised, I can barely walk. Now, not only do I feel that cold ache inside of me, but I cry when I look in the mirror. I no longer recognize my physical self, this flesh and blood that continues to grow around the empty space inside.

I understand that food is not the answer. I know that exercise is critical to my overall health. And yet, all I want to do is sit on the sofa and pet my dogs and read books and watch movies and stuff my face and cry. After working hours, of course. Because eight to ten hours of my day are already filled with a job that keeps my bank account in the black, but ensure my soul is continually longing for more.

My ex-husband once said that I was insatiable, greedy, never satisfied. And perhaps he’s right. Perhaps I will never reach the point where I feel like I am at peace. But is that where I want to be? I used to say that my sister was the most content human I’ve ever known—content with her station in life, content with her ever-changing jobs, content with the life she had chosen and made. And I am her polar opposite—always striving, searching, looking for the next big thing, my next place in the world, my next job, writing my next book, never satisfied staying in one place for long.

And is that a bad thing? A negative thing? Some might call it ambition. Others call it never having enough. I don’t know who is correct. It depends, I suppose, on the lens you are using.

But right now, I find that my discontent is something deeper. I’m not sure I have fully figured out how to grieve all the losses in my life. Although my physical moves all had reasons behind them, was I in some way running from myself? From my grief? From the ache inside me that never goes away, even when I try to smother it with Nothing Bundt Cakes?

How do you climb your way out of a chasm of sadness when you’ve gained enough weight to render your spine virtually useless and all you want to do about it is sit with a tender book and cry?

I mean, I used to be an athlete. I used to get up at 5:00 AM to work out before I woke my kids for school. I trained for and ran a full marathon. I’ve completed multiple sprint triathalons and half-marathons. I love to compete. To play pickleball. To play basketball. To run. To swim. To hike.

But I am crippled by the choices I’ve made that wreck my body and the choices the Universe has made that sink my spirit.

I sound like a load of fun, don’t I? A jolly good time.

I miss my mom.

I miss her smile. I miss her laugh. I miss her sense of humor and her adorable facial expressions. I miss her loving my kids with every ounce of her being. I miss sharing a Keoke coffee with her. I miss holding her hand. I miss her sage advice. I miss how she used to “hold court” when family and friends were present. I miss the way she could light up a room. I miss talking to her about my writing. I miss pushing her wheelchair out into the courtyard on a sunny day. I miss her taking “baby bites” of my food. I miss watching her laugh with her sisters. I miss her telling stories from her youth. I miss witnessing the way Bob used to care for her. I miss hearing her call me “Trinks.” I miss her asking me to sing for her. I miss knowing she is just a phone call away. Her number is still in my “Favorites” list on my phone. So is Carrie’s. So is Bob’s. I cannot bear to remove them.

Is it normal to feel so much emptiness four years after you lose someone? Or is it just the overwhelm of the combo platter of grief—to have so much served to you in such a short amount of time? I’m sure I should go back to therapy, but my god, it’s so daunting. And expensive. And where do you start? With your abandonment issues? With your childhood sexual abuse? With your internalized homophobia? How do you begin to unravel an entire lifetime of questions and love and loss?

The holidays are hard, regardless. It’s no small thing to go from spending every waking hour in December decorating and prepping and planning and shopping and baking to make every holiday moment magical for your four young kids. There won’t even be a Christmas tree this year, although I used to have three in the main house … and a themed one in every kid’s room. The feeling just hits differently. The holidays kind of feel like every other day now.

And on the flip side of that, I’m also grateful for the down time. I felt like I never had a minute to take a breath when the kids were little. Now, breathing is all I’m responsible for. Air in and out of my own lungs. That’s doable, most of the time.

I’m going to try to make 2026 the year of reclaiming myself. Of seeking joy instead of sitting in sadness. I’m not yet sure what that means. Probably some travel and a lot of writing and visiting old friends and making new ones. Of snuggling dogs and complimenting humans and greeting strangers with kindness and compassion. Of moving my body and making better food choices and maybe even going to Zumba. Of tipping well and trying new things and giving up old ways of being that no longer serve me. Of jumping in that camper van and finding my way back to nature or the mountains or the beach or all of the above. Of working hard to make my own writing my work because it’s work that never feels like work. Of volunteering and giving and then giving some more.

Plus a number of things I haven’t even yet considered. I’m taking suggestions, if you’re interested in sharing some. (Just please don’t suggest moving.)

I suppose it’s time to get back to packing now, or I’ll succumb to the gingerbread cookies Julie brought home from Trader Joe’s. They’re thin and crisp and so incredibly addicting. And they’re delicious with coffee. But we all know they’ll only add pounds to an already overloaded body. And no real comfort for an empty, aching heart.