The (Very Uncomfortable) Art of Letting Go: When the Movers Lose All Your Furniture
Updated: Jul 2
"Your new life is gonna cost you your old one."
I forget if it was around the time of a full moon or another supercharged energy portal that I tend to lose track of, but just when I had made the decision to try out this nomadic lifestyle, an intuitive friend posted that message for the masses online.
It felt kinda ominous. But also reassuring that as giant of a leap as this was, it was also arriving at a fitting time.
Sure, I thought, it’ll cost me familiarities and conveniences of DC life. Creature comforts of my apartment. A sense of certainty. But I gotta say, I never thought it would cause me to write that headline. Let alone serve up the contrast of living in a nightmare of nothing and returning to everything all at once.
The Nightmare
There I was, draped over my couch scrolling through storage facilities to house all my stuff when a real genius marketing effort by one company caught my eye. The moving and storage company, Clutter, touted that they’d not only come to my house to pick up all my stuff, but digitally inventory it so I could track and view all my items online. That also meant no U-haul rental or external movers needed. Sweet. I could even pick an item out and tell them to ship it to me without going to the (non-publicly accessible, temperature controlled, 24/7 security watched) warehouse myself! The rates were competitive. Their branding, slick. Sales reps, confident and non-robotic.
Woohoo! Finally, an easy decision.
In short: my belongings were loaded into the truck, whisked off, and within hours, my credit card was charged.
It was when I logged onto said-magic-portal that I realized… wait a minute. All my boxes are there. But where’s my bed? My sofa? My coffee table and chairs and lamps and rugs and … ALL my furniture?
After much back-and-forth with their team, a fresh message landed in my inbox last week, precisely on the day I carved out for some R&R before hitting the road west again. It informed me: “the team was unable to locate the items mentioned.”
Those “items mentioned?" They're $10K worth, to be exact.
My jaw slammed the floor. My heart raced. Panic swirled.
THIS.
WAS.
NOT.
THE.
PLAN.
My stuff, I thought, would be the last of my worries, safely tucked away and watched over so I could focus on my real journey. Did it all get mixed up with someone else’s items? Stolen? Grow legs and walk off on its own?
I've spent hours filling out claims and locating photos. Another few yelling and crying. As I type this, still none of the items have been located. And while I think there’s some benefit to holding onto faith that they may be found, another part of me believes it's wiser to find a way to be okay without them.
It’s just stuff, I keep telling myself. Thank God I brought all my sentimental things to my parents’ home.
But I’d be lying if I said this ordeal hasn’t shaken me up. That it hasn’t given me pause to consider what else might blow up or “go wrong.” Writing this has helped me continue to process it all. Yet, doubts creep in: What if it gets worse? What if I can’t handle it? What if this whole move was a giant mistake? What on earth was I thinking?
When I told a dear friend what had happened, she brought up a point: sometimes when we put the call out to the Universe for something, we’re not ready for the level at which it comes. Apparently, my “Hey Uni, I want to deal with less stuff and be free and roam!” was interpreted a little differently than what I imagined.
Me: Maybe this, for whatever unknown reason, is actually working out in my favor.
Also me: This is complete and utter bullsh*t and can we stop with the craptastrophes?
So yes, these first few days in Colorado have felt more disorienting than I “planned" and more disconnected than I’d like. It's kinda hard to tell the difference between altitude sickness and anxiety layered with raging hormones. But here I am, sandwiched between two adorable pups in a lovely home that, for now, remind me: we’ll keep finding ways to be okay.
AND, I'm a human. For me to really believe that, some proof would be fanfreakingtastic. So, I’m writing this next part out loud to remind myself that for every nightmare, there’s also a miracle.
The Miracle
When I moved out of Chicago two years ago, I was pretty done with it. Sick of the cold. Friendships had changed. It felt like a claustrophobic concrete jungle. For a while, every time I shared about my previous city, folks would say “Oooooh Chicago!! What a great town!” and I’d reply with something like “Yeah, until the charm wears off.” Yet it felt right to serve as the first stop on my journey west.
Having just come off a month back in that city, I’ve discovered this: Sometimes I need to leave a place (or a situation, or a person) for a while to see in full what it's given me.
Of course, it helps that summer is when Chicago shows off best. It’s hard not to feel joy when Millenium Park teems with happy people taking selfies by the bean, glinting in bright sun.
I was looking forward to seeing my family and my pals. But it was in the unspoken moments that my body seemed to accept that making peace doesn’t always come in verbal form. Rather, a feeling that flows back when it’s ready to be felt.
For the first time since Ferg passed, I decided to visit one of our favorite places where so many memories were made: the river walk. I went alone, on my own time, when I had no agenda or eye on the clock.
Unsurprisingly, all the feels rushed back. And then, something told me to turn around.
Sea turtles have become a special sign that Ferg and I use to communicate with each other. And staring back at me was none other than a 12-foot whimsical one, on display as a public work of art. Right in front of the patch of grass we spent hours lounging on.
I got closer to read the artist’s description.
The inspiration? “The Other Side.”
And the intent? To “evoke excitement of arriving in a new world contrasted with the reflection of leaving home—creating a sense of nowhere and everywhere, all at once.”
So yeah. Some hours I feel like I’m floating in a big honking pile of nowhereness. Ungrounded and swirling in the what-if's, how come's and where nexts. And others, it feels like the most important things show up right when I need them to lean on most. To keep following the curves of my journey, join my email list.
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