Grief. We all know what it is and most of us have experienced it in one way or another.

It’s the overwhelming sadness of a loved one dying. It’s the anticipatory pain of watching someone we love slipping away, perhaps to a physical illness, perhaps a mental illness, or maybe we are watching their cognitive function decline as they slowly lose their memory and the essence of who they are.

Perhaps we are mourning the breakdown of a relationship and saying goodbye to someone we once loved or still love. Perhaps our own health is deteriorating and we are facing our own mortality. Maybe our children have grown and we face a loss of self as we realise our mothering phase takes on a new identity. Perhaps we have voluntarily or involuntarily changed careers or retired and that daily routine we have followed for the longest time is different and whilst different can be good, there’s some processing that needs to take place. A letting go of the old. A mourning of what once was.

Ah, yes, grief has many faces and some of them are not always what we expect.

Today, I face a new grief. Not a profound loss like losing my mum. Or as painful as the breakdown of my marriage and a subsequent relationship. But a loss nonetheless, and with that her sister grief is tapping on my door.

A little over six years ago after my marriage ended I moved to my current home, I was filled with so many feelings and emotions at the time, and this home was my fresh start. A place I could call my own. It was the first time I had ever lived alone in my 50 years walking the planet. It was to become my solace. A space to experience the roller coaster of what had happened and what was to come.

I know what you may be thinking: “It’s just a home,” “We don’t grieve objects,” “This isn’t real grief,” “This invalidates serious losses.” It may not be at the level of those more intense losses, however, it is a loss nonetheless.

All life changes and transitions come with an element of loss and grief. And these losses and griefs need to be worked through and processed.

I walked through the door of my home on a sunny spring day, with anticipation, a little excitement, and a hardy dose of fear because this was all new. I had catapulted myself out of my comfort zone, into the unknown, and that was a little terrifying. Unnerving. Still mourning the loss of my marriage and leaving the family home I had lived for 20 years, I needed this space to envelop me like a warm hug. And it did.

I was in the throes of a new relationship, with all its intensity and new-love passion. I was discovering the new area I was living in and enjoying rediscovering myself. Regaining my independence and learning that I could rely on myself. You know, hindsight is a funny thing. In hindsight, I could have chosen to do things differently, and some would say I probably should have, but the choices I made, as hard as some were, have led me to where I am today. It’s the road I needed to travel.

And I’m about to jump out of my comfort zone again, as I move from this home that knows me so intimately. That has been my haven. My safe space.

If these walls could talk, they would have a lot to say. This place has seen the worst of me, but it has also seen the best of me. Every emotion, every feeling, every loss, every gain, all the love, and all the despair, have seeped into the walls, over the past six years. They have heard the laughter; they have felt the unbridled passion. The intense love and the intense pain. They have borne witness to the messy, the ugly, the despair. They have heard the anguished sobs and the begging for relief. The prayers of faith and the prayers of hope. They have watched me writhe in emotional distress, whilst I lay on the floor, wondering if I’d ever get up, or if indeed, I even wanted to. And every time, this place comforted me. Held me. Allowed me to feel safe. This home became my one consistent in life.

Parts of me have seeped into every wall. They hold all my secrets. All my stories. They hold my mistakes and my successes. They hold every moment of the last six years, which have been a defining six years.

They watched me grieve the breakdown of a relationship. They heard me accept a retrenchment from a 35-year career. They comforted me as my mum slipped away. They captured my granddaughter’s first steps. They saw me study my Masters in Counselling. They cheered me on as I started my business. They blocked out the external sound as I wrote and recorded my meditations. They encouraged my creativity to start writing again.

These walls aren’t just walls—they have been my security. My safety. The space I retreat to when the world becomes too much. They have seen me naked—my body, mind, and soul. They have seen me stripped away and raw. They have seen me disconnected and reconnected. They have seen me heal. Grow. Transform.

These walls have seen me rediscover the woman I am. Every part of me. Every version of me.

Over the years, I have trickled into every part of this place. My energy pulsating into every crevice, with every breath I take. And whilst it’s time to move on, let go, and explore the next version of me, it comes with some feelings of loss. A mourning of all that has taken place in these walls. All the memories enveloping me and reminding me of all that I have experienced, all that I have felt. The vulnerability and the courage. The resilience. The sheer determination. How far I have come. How much I have learnt about love, life, myself. How strong I am and how connected I have become. This place has been an incredible gift and what I needed, and even though there’s an element of bittersweet in moving on, I know it’s time.

Our home is never just a place. It’s never just an object. Our home holds our truth. It sees us without our mask, if we are ready. It holds the space for us to heal and grow, if we are ready to do that work. This home holds so much because it was the most painful, yet redefining time of my life. It could have been the space I chose to completely fall apart and give up, but instead, it was the space where I let every feeling and emotion wash over me. There are no rugs in this home to sweep all the painful things we don’t want to feel under.

When I walked in and closed the door behind me, it was just me and these walls, and many would run from that because it’s uncomfortable, scary, and overwhelming, and we humans don’t like that. We are taught to distract ourselves, busy ourselves, pretend we’re fine, hide how we really feel, and never truly deal with what’s going on inside of us. These walls didn’t allow that. It was just them and me. I could have run; I felt like running, but instead I sat. I stopped. And these walls were a catalyst for change. These walls hold the veracity of who I am.

So yes, there’s a loss and grief we feel when moving out of a home that holds so much. And whilst I’m excited for the next adventure, it’s not without some sadness. It’s not without shedding a few tears because this home has seen me, heard me, and felt me. This home holds several stories, some beautiful, some not so beautiful, and some downright awful and devastating.

This home is a part of me and saying goodbye comes with feelings of loss and I welcome that. I welcome the reminder of how far I have come and the incredible journey I have been on.

I thank these walls for holding me for six years and being the space I so needed at the time. And I gracefully say goodbye.

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