Something shifted this week.
Perhaps it was the people walking through my house, talking about how they would make it theirs next year. Or perhaps it was signing the final documents with the movers and picking the date for them to come and take our things away—for a year.
I’m not sure, but I began to feel myself detach. Detach in that same way that when someone tells you they’re leaving a job, it’s suddenly not quite the same anymore. The camaraderie changes. The conversations adjust.
The underlying tone is: You’re no longer one of us.
We’re not there. And yet we’re starting to not be here.
We’re not quite around the corner, but we’ve made the turn.
It’s uncomfortable in this place of limbo.
Not just for me, but for my kids too. Instinctively they are picking up on it, even if they don’t know what it is. They don’t like the idea of someone else setting up camp in their bedrooms for a year. They don’t like having to tell their friends they will miss a concert because it’s after they leave. They don’t like not knowing what their home will look like next year.
I’m straddling two lives, one foot on either side. I’m trying to find my footing over there, just a little. I’m starting to read the local paper. I’m showing my kids websites for their new schools. But it doesn’t feel real yet. It kind of feels forced. Icky almost. Like that life belongs to someone else and I have no business connecting to it yet.
Be here. Be present.
That’s what we’re told by mainstream pop therapy. But it’s hard when you are in the space in between—at the corner of past and future. It’s hard when the ending hasn’t quite arrived, and a new beginning is just around the bend.