this room of my own

saying goodbye to a home and a special writing space

All the rooms in our house are packed up and lined with boxes except one.

Amidst the chaos of moving our family from the home where we’ve lived for 13 years to a new home across town, I wanted one space that felt calm and put together. I needed a place to work and a place to escape so I kept this room, my home office, my writing space, intact. Or so that’s what I told myself.

Not a single book has been taken down or put away. Framed pictures still line the walls. The writing craft books I keep within arms distance of my desk are still there. All the photos and mementos of Italy that put me in the mindset to write my Florence memoir are where they’ve always been.

But it’s time to pack up this room. We move in two days.

I’m not feeling overly sentimental about packing other rooms. My children’s rooms once filled with matchbox cars, legos, and stuffed animals now hold teen wants like baseball hats and makeup. Baby clothes and thread-bare lovies are safely packed in storage bins and bound for the new basement. Posters and framed elementary school art projects have been taken down. Bedrooms where we read books and chased Hazel when she got the zoomies late at night are now only rooms. I seal one more box with clear tape and pray all the memories and love these rooms contained are tucked inside.

But when it comes to my writing space, the room where I’ve gone to write every morning for the past six years, I hesitate. This place has a hold on me. I don’t want to break it down, to rid it of all the things that have fostered my hopes and dreams and creativity. I wrote an entire book—my memoir—here in this room. What if this room is magic? What if it holds the secret to the words I’ve written down? What if these four walls are essential and necessary for me to write?

What if?

What if…

I know I have to trust that I’ll find a writing flow in our new home, that a new space and new room of my own will eventually come to be. And that space can be magical, if I allow it. Just like with any change in life there is a need to let go of the past and embrace the possibility of the unknown. This one room I am holding on to is where all my fear is placed for the moment. As I nestle old Halloween costumes and board games into boxes, I tell myself the kids will be happy in our new home. They will continue to grow and thrive and become amazing young adults. I wrap a wedding photo in tissue paper and say a little prayer that my marriage will feel just as strong and steady within a new set of walls. I pack the dog bowls and reassure Hazel that eventually the new house will feel like home.

I carry empty boxes down to my basement writing room and remind myself it is only a room and the magic is within me.

A house becomes a home when a family makes it so.

It’s time to pack up my books and pictures of Florence. This room where I’ve felt alive and hopeful, and where my dreams were given credibility will soon belong to someone else. It served me well and I’m grateful for my time here. I will search for inspiration and seek joy someplace new, trusting myself to face the unknown and start again.

Goodbye to this home we’ve loved. We hope it brings joy to someone new.