You do not want to know how many times I have moved in my life. No seriously. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
While I know most people do not like change, I seem to love it. I tease people that as a quintuple Sagittarius, I eat change sprinkled on my Wheaties in the mornings. This past year has made me wonder if one of the primary purposes of this lifetime for me is to “know myself.”
Over the years, I have owned a staggering 10 homes. I’ve been lucky. Being a “recovering accountant” and having a great eye for houses, most of those I sold for a profit (though certainly not all.) I sometimes envy people who bought a house in their 20s and that house is now paid off. But mostly, I feel blessed to have had such an array of architectural experiences. If you ask me if I have a “type,” I don’t. I’ve lived in Victorian, Tutor, new build, contemporary, transitional, and Tuscan homes. My current house is what I could call French Cottage. If I tell anyone who knows me well that any particular house is “my final home” they just roll their eyes and laugh at me.
One of the things that happens when you move a lot, is that things invariably get put in weird places. I’m a notorious neat-Nick and when I move in somewhere, I am trying to make the place look presentable in record time, every single time. This can create some very interesting experiences when it’s time to either go back and organize or to move still yet again.
Right before my mother passed away in 2013, I had bought her a new purse. She loved the a brand called Brighton because their emblem is a heart (Valentine… get it?) But my mom wasn’t fancy. And though she loved the brand, she considered them “too nice” to carry on a daily basis.
After she passed away, my sister placed that (never carried even once) bag into a box of stuff that was to come to me. I knew it was there. What I was supposed to do with it, I have no idea. But what I did do with it was just sort of haphazardly store it in a closet with office supplies. (Totally logical. Right?) I then proceeded to completely forget it was there.
Nine years later, it’s time to move again. I’m emptying the closet to pack it up. “What is this beige felt bag?” Open it up.
Brighton Purse.
I fell to pieces.
Now keep in mind that it had been 9 years since my mom passed away. Did I still miss her? Of course. Was I used to her being gone? Yes. Did I know that wound was still there?
Apparently not.
In that moment of going through a closet, I got to get reintroduced to a version of Rad that was still “a momma’s boy” tried and true. I got to remember what it was like to buy her nice things. To call her every Sunday morning at 8am. To hear her voice. To have her wisdom.
I got to get in touch with a part of me that I had started to forget.
And that’s the thing about closets.
About grief.
About life.
We put things away—neatly, quickly, unconsciously—because that’s what we have to do in the moment.
We think we’ve “handled it.”
But sometimes, when we finally open that closet again, what we find isn’t just an old bag.
It’s a message.
It’s a mirror.
It’s a part of ourselves we didn’t even realize was waiting to be seen.