A reflection on homes, grief, change, and how our relationship with places evolves as we do.
Last week, I accepted an offer on my house.
Even writing those words feels strange.
Not because I didn’t want to sell it. In truth, I’ve been trying to let go of it for some time now. But because that house has been part of my life for almost three decades. It has witnessed so many versions of me that saying goodbye feels less like a property transaction and more like closing a chapter.
I bought the house in 1997 with Terry, my late husband. At that point, we’d only been together for eighteen months. I was a serial renter who loved the freedom of knowing life could change at any moment. Commitment, especially the sort that came with a mortgage, felt rather permanent.
Terry saw things differently.
As was often the case, he gently persuaded me.
It was the first property I ever owned. What made it even more special was that my mum was there to help us move in. I remember how happy she was to see me settled. After years where travel had been such a feature of my life, I think she secretly wondered whether I would ever put down roots.
Just over a year later, she was gone.
The house was there for that too.
It was where I returned after losing her (and many years later, my Dad too). Where I learned that grief can settle itself into the corners of everyday life and appear without warning when you least expect it. She never got to see me get married. Never got to see the life Terry and I would build together there.
For many years after that, it was a very happy home.
We worked hard, played hard, extended the house, and filled it with all the ordinary moments that quietly become a life. Looking back now, those years feel full of possibility and momentum. We were building a future together and the house became part of that story.
Then, thirteen years after we married, everything changed.
I lost Terry.
And in one devastating moment, the house changed too.
The walls were the same. The rooms were the same. But the feeling of the place was entirely different. The happiness that had once filled it seemed to disappear overnight, replaced by grief, trauma, silence, and memories that were often too painful to revisit.
As I changed my life completely to deal with my life having changed completely, the house became the one constant. It was less a home now and more a base camp. A place to return to, regroup, catch my breath, and then leave again as I set off on another adventure.
While almost everything else about my life transformed, the house stayed exactly where it was.
Eventually, though, I realised something important.
The life I was living no longer matched the life the house had been built for.
I was travelling more. Spending less time there. The place I had once loved so much had become too large for one person and too full of rooms that no longer reflected how I lived.
So, just before the pandemic, I moved.
I downsized into a small flat with no garden, no balcony, and no outside space at all. The timing, as it turned out, was less than ideal. While everyone else was learning to bake bread, grow vegetables, and appreciate their gardens during lockdown, I had just given mine away.
The house became a rental property.
And then the relationship changed again.
The home I had once loved became an income stream. Then a responsibility. Then a list of maintenance issues. Then, eventually, a source of stress.
Over time, I realised that my emotional connection to the house had shifted completely. What had once represented security, love, and happy memories increasingly felt like a burden I was carrying rather than a place I loved.
And that’s when I began thinking about something I hadn’t considered before.
It’s not just people who move in and out of our lives.
Places do too.
The things we love don’t remain fixed in time. Our relationship with them evolves as we evolve.
The same house that once represented excitement and possibility became a sanctuary during grief. Later, it became a practical asset. Then a source of frustration. None of those versions were wrong. They simply reflected where I was at that particular point in my life.
I think that’s often true when we’re letting go of the past.
We tend to imagine that places, possessions, and memories should always mean the same thing to us. But they don’t. As we grow, heal, and move through different chapters, our relationship with them changes too.
Which brings me to this week.
When the offer came in, I expected to feel sad.
Instead, what I felt was acceptance.
Not relief exactly.
Not celebration.
Just a quiet sense that it was time.
Time for someone else to create memories there. Time for someone else to love the garden. Time for someone else to experience all the ordinary moments that eventually become a life.
And time for me to move fully into whatever comes next.
As I prepare for a new adventure, I find myself reflecting on how often we hold on to things long after they’ve finished serving the role they were meant to play.
Not because we’re unhappy.
Not because we’re afraid.
But because letting go requires us to acknowledge that a chapter has genuinely ended.
Perhaps that’s why moving on after loss can take so many different forms. Sometimes it’s not about leaving a person behind. It’s about leaving behind a place, an identity, or a version of ourselves that no longer fits who we have become.
Perhaps that’s what this sale really represents.
Not the end of an era.
I’ve written about enough endings recently.
Instead, it feels more like an acknowledgement that one version of my life has completed its work.
The house stayed the same.
I didn’t.
And perhaps that’s exactly as it should be.
Have you ever had to let go of a place that meant far more to you than bricks and mortar? Leave a Comment below to let me know
This Week on YouTube
The solo travel fears series continues this week with a fear many of us don’t talk about often enough: being vulnerable.
Whether it’s asking for help, admitting we don’t know what we’re doing, or simply allowing ourselves to be seen, vulnerability can feel uncomfortable at the best of times. Add travel into the mix and those feelings can become even stronger.
This week, I’m exploring why vulnerability might not be the weakness we often think it is.
Throwback Travel Corner
This week’s throwback feels particularly fitting.
When grief first entered my life, travel became part of how I learned to keep moving forward. Not because it fixed anything, but because it gave me space, perspective, and moments of possibility when I needed them most.
Travelling Through Grief & Overcoming Social Awkwardness
Thank you for being here — whether you read every word or just dip in now and then.
Until next time,
Safe travels,
Sue x
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PS Helpful travel resources I genuinely use can always be found HERE.
🏠 For accommodation, I use Expedia and Booking.com primarily. They have their own loyalty schemes which is easy to progress through the levels for better discounts and inclusions.
🚍 For tours and activities, my preferred supplier is Get Your Guide.
🗺️ For multi day or week tours, check out G Adventures. I used them for trips in Costa Rica, Peru, and Galapagos.
🧳 For luggage storage on your travels, I recommend the service by Bounce.
