No longer here, not yet there

The time has come.

We are selling the family home.

As most people know, Michael and I separated nearly 2 years ago. In that time, for a variety of reasons, we’ve been living separately together. Under the same roof, but apart.

I’ve heard stories from friends doing something similar, partners living together after the separation. And for time periods from 2 months to 20 years.

To be honest, I’ve not felt ready to let go of the familiarity of the four of us being in the one house. And as I’ve written on this blog before, Michael and I consciously chose to conduct our separation in a kind, loving and respectful way.

So it’s been easy to allow this time to unfold gently, with no pressure or expectation of what we ‘should’ be doing.

But after my trip to the US in June, and much processing and support, I returned home knowing it was time to take the next step.

Mere hours after I stepped off the plane, Michael and I agreed to call the real estate agent.

The ball started rolling and with it important conversations like how much the house is worth and what needs to be done to put it on the market. We even signed some paperwork.

But Life still felt familiar and comfortable. Nothing really changed.

My feet were still on the shoreline.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday the For Sale sign went up in front of the house.

Now I feel like I’ve entered the Twilight Zone. That space between no longer here, but not yet there.

Hell, I don’t even know where ‘there’ is yet.

I sent a photo of the sign to my best friend saying ‘shit’s getting real!’

I feel like I’ve pushed off from the shoreline.

Which can be a freakin’ scary feeling.

But here it is. As much as I love comfort, familiarity and certainty I’m going to embrace every bit of this space in between.

I’m going to enjoy our kooky family conversations about putting a camera on the For Sale sign so we record everyone who drives past slowly.

I’m going to be fully present to every question and speculation from the girls about what life is going to be like once the house is sold and Michael and I search for new homes, separately.

I’m going to honour and allow my moments of reflection, memories, sadness and tears.

But ultimately I’m going into this with the same mindset I had ten years ago when we transported our whole lives (plus one extra child) back from Switzerland.

An intention of grace and ease and a knowingness that everything will turn out exactly as it’s meant to.

I can either stress and worry myself through it, or I can trust and surrender.

And I’ve been around the block enough times to know, the shoreline might be out of sight for now but it doesn’t stay that way. I get to choose how I experience the space in between.

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