I Want More of the Other Side of Life

There is something strange about dismantling a life.

Not destroying it.

Not running from it.

Just standing in the middle of everything that has accumulated around you and deciding, one thing at a time:

Do I want this to come with me?

I had a whole house to answer that question about.

Four levels. Three bedrooms. Four bathrooms. Furniture, dishes, clothes, photographs, things tucked into drawers, things I'd forgotten were in closets, things somebody once thought we needed, things we'd paid good money for, things that had served us beautifully.

A whole life had collected there.

And now it had to be sorted.

Some things belonged to my daughter.

Those went with her.

Some things belonged to someone else.

Those went where they belonged.

Some things could be sold.

Some donated.

Some thrown away.

And then there were the things that were mine.

Not simply because I had purchased them.

Mine because I still wanted them.

That distinction became important.

I didn't want to take the contents of one life and simply squeeze them into the square footage of another.

I wasn't trying to recreate the house I was leaving.

I was going somewhere new.

And I wanted to know what I wanted there.

So I chose.

Piece by piece.

Room by room.

What I wanted went with me.

Everything else found somewhere else to go.

It sounds remarkably practical when I say it like that.

Moving.

People do it every day.

You get boxes. You make piles. You call somebody with a truck. You discover that apparently you own seventeen

versions of the same damn thing and have no recollection of purchasing eleven of them.

But somewhere in the middle of all that sorting, I think another kind of sorting had begun.

I just didn't have language for it yet.

Because when you're holding something in your hands and asking yourself whether you actually want it anymore,

eventually the question becomes bigger than the thing you're holding.

Do I actually want this?

Not:

Is it still good?

Not:

Did it cost money?

Not:

Have I had it for a long time?

Not even:

Did I once love it?

Just:

Do I want this to come with me?

There is a difference.

And maybe I couldn't have understood that difference earlier in my life.

For a long time, keeping something seemed almost synonymous with appreciating it.

If something had mattered, you kept it.

If someone had been important, you held on.

If something had taken years to build, surely you didn't just walk away from it.

If a role had once given you purpose, you continued performing it.

If something was still perfectly functional, what possible reason could there be to release it?

But I'm beginning to understand something.

Nothing being wasted doesn't mean everything must be kept.

Those are two completely different things.

Something can have served me beautifully and still not belong where I'm going.

Something can have been exactly what I needed for one chapter and completely unnecessary for the next.

Something can have taught me everything it came to teach me.

The lesson can come with me even when the thing does not.

I think that's one of the strangest freedoms I'm discovering in this chapter.

I don't have to turn something into a villain before I'm allowed to release it.

I don't have to diminish what it meant.

I don't have to pretend I never loved it.

I don't have to rewrite the history.

I can appreciate something.

Bless what it gave me.

Acknowledge what it cost me.

Remember it honestly.

And still say:

I'm not taking this with me.

There was something almost sacred about realizing that.

Because by the time the old house was empty, I could see it differently.

Rooms that had once held an entire life were just rooms again.

The furniture was gone.

Closets were empty.

Cabinets bare.

The things that made it ours—or mine, or hers, or his, depending on what they were—had been removed one decision at a time.

And I wasn't standing there feeling as though my life had disappeared.

Because the things that were actually mine to carry?

I had them.

Some were packed in boxes.

Some were memories.

Some were lessons.

Some were wisdom I hadn't recognized as wisdom yet.

Some were parts of myself I was only beginning to hear again.

And then I came here.

My first real home completely on my own.

Even now, every once in a while, I look around and remind myself:

This is my house.

I live here.

Alone.

😂

There isn't another adult coming home later.

Nobody else's belongings are waiting to be unpacked.

Nobody else's preferences need to be accommodated.

If I move something, that's where it stays until I move it again.

If I want flowers, I buy flowers.

If I want silence, the house is silent.

If I want music playing while I'm doing absolutely nothing of importance, that's what happens.

There is something both wonderfully ordinary and extraordinary about that.

At this age, after having spent so much of my life connected to other people's needs, schedules, preferences,

responsibilities and presence, I am getting acquainted with the sound of my own life.

And it's quieter than I expected.

But it doesn't feel empty.

That's another distinction I'm learning.

Empty and spacious are not the same thing.

For a while, I think I had confused the two.

We spend so much of life filling things.

Calendars.

Homes.

Closets.

Relationships.

Responsibilities.

Silence.

Sometimes even our own minds.

An open space appears and almost immediately we begin deciding what belongs in it.

But lately, I'm interested in leaving some room.

I don't know what belongs there yet.

And for once, I don't feel particularly anxious to decide.

Maybe that's because I'm beginning to understand that expansion isn't always about adding.

Sometimes expansion happens because there is finally enough room around you to stretch.

Enough quiet to hear what you actually think.

Enough distance to recognize what mattered.

Enough self-trust to admit what doesn't anymore.

Enough life behind you to stop confusing longevity with belonging.

And enough curiosity about yourself to ask a question without already knowing the answer.

What else is here?

I've been thinking about that lately.

Because I have lived a lot of life.

I've raised a daughter.

Built businesses.

Loved people.

Cared for women.

Made money.

Lost things.

Started again.

Worked extraordinarily hard.

Been needed.

Been responsible.

Been brave when I didn't particularly feel like being brave.

I've experienced one side of life very thoroughly.

And I'm grateful for it.

But I'm beginning to wonder about the other side.

Not because this life hasn't been enough.

Not because I'm running from anything.

And certainly not because I've decided the next chapter needs to be one long reinvention project.

God, no.

I'm tired just typing that.

I'm simply curious.

What does life feel like when there is more room in it?

What becomes visible when I'm not carrying everything simply because I once picked it up?

What happens when my preferences aren't the last consideration?

What happens when I don't need every choice to be useful?

What might I love that I haven't encountered yet?

Where haven't I stood?

What haven't I tasted?

Who haven't I met?

What haven't I thought about?

What haven't I allowed myself to want simply because there wasn't room to want it before?

I don't know.

And that may be my favorite part.

I don't have some grand vision board answer for what the rest of my life is supposed to look like.

I have dreams.

Plenty of them.

I have plans.

I have desires.

I have things I'm building.

But I'm becoming increasingly interested in leaving some room for life to surprise me.

Because perhaps making room wasn't only about what I needed to leave behind.

Maybe I wasn't clearing space merely so I could admire the space.

Maybe there is something on the other side of all this room.

Another way of experiencing my days.

Another relationship with time.

Another relationship with myself.

More places.

More tastes.

More conversations.

More beauty.

More laughter.

More Tuesday afternoons that belong entirely to me.

More things I haven't even learned enough about yet to know that I want them.

More life and eventually more love…

And suddenly, that doesn't feel greedy to me.

It feels awake, alive again..

I've spent a lifetime experiencing one side of life.

I loved parts of it.

Some parts hurt.

Some parts changed me.

Some parts I would choose all over again.

Some I wouldn't.

But all of it belongs to the life I've lived.

And I don't need to drag every piece of it forward to prove that it mattered.

Nothing was wasted.

But everything doesn't have to come.

Maybe that's the beautiful thing about standing here.

I haven't arrived empty-handed.

I've arrived with room.

And I can see there is more life over there.

I don't know exactly what it looks like yet.

I don't know who I'll meet there.

I don't know what I'll discover about myself once I get there.

For once, I don't need to.

I have finally made enough room to go find out what it feels like.