The first house I ever owned

This #thankyouthursday, I am grateful for the first house I ever owned.

Sometime today I will officially stop owning it; sometime soon different people will be living in, and hopefully loving, the first house I ever owned.

When I bought that house, I was so afraid. It felt like such a huge commitment, on par with marriage. At the time, when I consulted my spirit guides to help understand my anxiety, they pointed out that, for me, home ownership amounted to healing ancestral lineage: no other female in my family line had been the sole owner of property.

I don’t know if that ancestral lineage aspect is affecting how I feel today, but I do know I am having feelings. Some are sad or bittersweet—that house is where my son was born, where he spent his infancy and celebrated his first birthday. It’s where I used to watch deer graze in the backyard and where we sheltered during the worst of the pandemic. That house is also the first place my spouse and I made big decisions about loans and renovations and landscaping, where we honed our understanding of how we best like to live.

So yes, I will miss the first house I ever owned. But I am also proud of what I am letting go. When we moved in, I was in awe of the home’s history—it was built in 1924—and I was determined to be a good steward. And it definitely needed a lot of stewardship. We put so much into improving that place, and now I can feel good about moving on.

Love > fear,
Christina