Im in a really difficult place right now, and I don’t think people realise how heavy this actually feels. I’m packing up a house I still love, a house that’s been my safe place for ten years, and I’m doing it while dealing with a level of emotional turmoil that’s hard to explain. I’m not moving because I want a bigger house or a nicer area. I’m moving because staying this close to my family is hurting me. The house itself isn’t the problem. If I could pick it up and drop it somewhere else, I would. The space works. My life fits here. My cats are settled. I’ve put years of care into making it feel like home. But the environment around it — the proximity, the pressure, the emotional history — has become too much. Being this close to family means I’m constantly pulled back into old roles and old dynamics that I’ve spent years trying to step out of. It’s draining and destabilising, and it’s not something I can “manage better” or ignore. I’ve tried that for years. People who haven’t lived in this kind of family system don’t understand the constant push‑pull. The guilt. The pressure to keep the peace. The feeling that you’re either trying too hard to hold onto people who hurt you, or you’re the one who “chose to be distant.” There’s no winning position. There’s no version where I stay here and stay well. And that’s the part that breaks me a little. Because I’m not leaving a house — I’m leaving a pattern. A dynamic. A version of myself I don’t want to be anymore. Packing up a decade of your life while carrying all of this is brutal. Every time I put something in a box, it hits me: I’m not leaving because I want to. I’m leaving because I have to. And that’s a very specific kind of grief. I’m trying to keep the house cosy for my cats, tidy for viewings, functional for daily life — all while feeling like I’m slowly peeling myself away from a place that held me through some of the hardest years of my life. It’s a lot. It’s too much some days. The limbo is the worst part. I’m still here, but I’m already mentally preparing to go. I’m searching for somewhere new, but nothing feels right yet. I’m grieving a home I’m still living in. I’m exhausted, but I can’t stop. I’m ready to leave, but I’m heartbroken that I have to. I’m not doing this to run away. I’m doing this to protect myself. I’m choosing distance because closeness has been damaging. I’m choosing peace over obligation. I’m choosing a life where I’m not constantly pulled back into old wounds. I’m choosing a future that feels healthier for me and for the family I’m building on my own terms. This move hurts. It’s painful. It’s messy. It’s necessary. And even though I never thought I’d want to move, I know deep down that choosing myself isn’t something I should feel guilty for.
This is hard, but ill continue to be stuck if i don’t go. There’s no question, other than, where?! I need to find the perfect place for us all with space for my own family soon too. Space that is safe. Not perfect – safe.
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