How to settle in
When you’ve left home for good, how do you find it again?
Welcome to Nourish, a free monthly(ish) newsletter to help you be kinder to yourself and others. I'm Erin Strybis, a writer, mama, bookworm and believer. In your October/November 2024 issue: reflections on moving in, self-care in the face of change, new reading recommendations and more.
Dear reader,
Week one // We're on day seven of living in our new apartment. It's beautiful here, with huge windows, a large main bedroom and a dreamy walk-in closet. Sure, unpacked boxes frame the living room and the children's sock collection is MIA, but we can cook meals, shower and get dressed, so I’m pleased with our unpacking progress.
There is one issue that’s (literally) keeping us up at night: bedtime with our two-year-old, Adam.
For the first time, he’s in a big boy bed and he’s sharing his room with his older brother. When the lights go out, Adam becomes a wild thing, hopping from his bed to his brother's. He yelps and bellows and rolls around under his comforter.
Each night I snuggle up with Adam in his bed and ask him to be quiet and still. I’ve tried patting his back and singing softly to no avail. He’s struggling to settle into this strange, new space. I can relate. Though I’m glad to be here, I can’t bring myself to call this apartment home — not when there are so many memories linked to the walls of our old house.
“This too shall pass,” I mutter to myself in the darkness. The words are half prayer, half mantra.
Week two // I can’t help it: I’m crying in the parking garage.
Yesterday, a neighbor parked too close to the edge of an already tight space, requiring me to back into our spot. After practically 27 tries and a couple honks from impatient drivers, I finally made it. By the time I unearthed Adam from his carseat, my back was slick with sweat.
That’s not what triggered tears. This afternoon, parking went smoothly. It only takes 10(ish) tries to park in the too small spot we’re paying an arm and a leg to rent. The boys are fighting about I-don’t-know-what in the backseat. “Landslide” plays over the car speakers:
Well, I've been 'fraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you
I look in the rearview mirror at my bickering boys, then I glimpse my bewildered eyes. I miss our old home, even though deep down I know we made the right choice selling it. I miss our spacious garage, private backyard and nice neighbors. I miss life a couple weeks ago, and, most of all, I hate that I miss it.
Life is like one of those topsy-turvy carnival rides that looked fun upon selection, but now that you’re upside down, you’re having second thoughts. Alas, it’s too late to turn around.
A tidal wave of tears wets my cheeks. The commotion in the backseat quiets. “Are you okay, Mom?” my oldest, Jack, calls out.
“Yeah,” I answer, wiping my eyes. “Well, no, actually, I’m not. Living here feels hard.” Given that there are so many families who have been displaced due to hurricane damage, this admission seems selfish. We chose this change. Nevertheless, we’re all contending with a similar question: When you’ve left home for good, how do you find it again?
“Well, I like it here,” Jack responds, pulling his backpack to his chest.
“Yeah!” Adam chimes in.
“Good,” I say, opening my door. “I’m just not there yet. I think I need to give it some time.”
Week three // With Adam’s hand in a death grip and our dog’s leash in my other hand, I march forward, scanning the parking lot for threats. A car whizzes down the ramp.
“Stay close, Jack!” I shout, waving him back from walking ahead of us.
“Yes, Mom,” he intones, jogging toward us. Whoosh. The car passes. We open another door, steer clear of another speedy car and plug our noses while walking by the dumpster. Adam stops short a few feet ahead of the door to the dog walk. “Hold me,” he insists.
“Adam, it’s only a few more feet until we get outside.”
“HOLD! ME! MOM!” he repeats, stretching his arms up at me.
I sigh and hoist Adam on my hip; our dog Gus chooses this exact moment to tangle his leash around my ankles and I lurch to the side, stepping out, narrowly avoiding collapse. I am desperate for this walk to be over and it hasn’t even started.
This routine of navigating the labyrinth-like parking garage linked to our apartment is temporary, I remind myself. One day we’ll have another house — a real home — and a yard again. I wish everything could fall into place for our family now, but that’s not how life works.
Finally we reach the dog walk. Although it doesn’t beat the convenience of a backyard, it does have tennis courts, a little lake and an open field dotted with pine trees. I set Adam down. “OK guys, go play!” I say, turning my attention to Gus.
While the dog does his business, the boys explore, first looking at rocks then observing a friendly duck they insist I photograph.
Picture captured, I watch them bolt toward the pine trees for a round of tag. They circle the evergreens a dozen times, then arrive red-faced and giggling at my feet.
My lips relax into a smile. I’ve been gripping tight to memories of our old home in one hand while the other struggles to grasp our current reality. When my husband and I sold our home, we trusted God would provide us with our next home within God’s timing. Yet, ever since we arrived in this liminal space, I’ve been unmoored by its challenges and anxious to leave it. Seeing my boys play, I wonder what gifts this place has to offer us.
“Chase us, Mom!” they cry. These brothers don’t need their own backyard — they can make fun anywhere. I take the dog’s leash and join them.
Week four // I’m sitting up in bed with my diary atop my lap. Gus is curled against my legs, snoring. My husband has left for the gym. Out the window, the sky is lavender, accented by a thin, orange glow kissing the horizon.
It’s been a month since we moved in. I’m no longer crying in the parking garage or getting tangled up en route to the dog walk. Bedtime with our boys is somewhat easier. We’re still figuring out how to cultivate a sense of home in this new apartment. And, for the first time in adulthood, I have a bedroom with a view of the sunrise.
All October, friends asked me, “How are you settling in?” I just laughed, admitting that “settling in” has been harder than I imagined. One friend described moving as traumatic. I think she’s on to something.
The walls that once sheltered our family could tell stories of Christmases and Easters celebrated, babies soothed, movie nights and playdates and potty training. They held artwork and calendars and family photos. Within a couple months, they became home to a new family who’s writing their story there.
Whether we leave our homes in peace or exile, we all need time to grieve them. By acknowledging the depth of our loss, we can find closure and make room in our hearts for new homes to steward and settle into.
My pen scratches across the page, my boys are sleeping peacefully and, looking outside, I see a new day dawning. Eventually, these apartment walls will hold our family’s artwork and celebrations. The weeks will continue to unfold and so will our story. No turning back — this wild ride’s only begun.
Today, I have a new answer to that question: We’re settling in just fine.
NOURISH YOURSELF
In Chicagoland, many of the trees have lost their leaves and mail-in ballots have been distributed and returned. As the promise of change swirls around us — both in nature and society — we may be feeling anxious, hopeful, dreadful, excited and more. In the thick of such hefty transitions, engaging in grounding self-care is critical to our wellbeing.
Ask yourself: Where do I find comfort and stability?
For many of us, the answer may be our homes, our people, our faith. Perhaps you have a special song you listen to lift your spirits. Maybe you take a long walk or stretch on your yoga mat. Or, you pour yourself a hot cup of tea and you watch the sunset. On election day and beyond, I encourage you to make time for self-care that grounds you. Set aside your phone. Turn off the news for a moment. Light a candle. Read your favorite poem. Pray. Call a friend. Walk. Capture your thoughts and feelings in your journal. Simply breathe. Then, when you’re ready, reenter your ordinary life feeling a little more sturdy, ready to face the coming change.
NOURISH OTHERS
If you’re one of my U.S. readers, what is your plan to vote? I’ve returned my vote by mail ballot. You may choose to vote in person. Whatever the case and whomever you support, be sure to make your voting plan now. Ballot Ready is a wonderful resource I use to research candidates. I encourage you to vote in such a way that reflects your values. I will be voting for the candidates whose policies best reflect my desire for a kinder, safer and more just nation. Remember, your vote and your voice matters.
NOURISHING WORDS
On my nightstand:
Still Life by Louise Penny: Inspired by my friends Holly and Jorge, I entered the world of Chief Inspector Gamache for a cozy mystery. This book, the first in the popular series, transported and delighted me.
A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness: Just in time for Halloween, I picked up this tome following Professor Diana Bishop, a powerful witch who discovers a rare book on alchemy and finds herself falling hopelessly in love with a vampire. I’m a third of the way through it and have enjoyed this author’s world- and character-building.
Next month for Advent I’ll be following along with Kate Bowler’s Weary World Rejoices e-devotional. Bowler’s faith writing is refreshingly honest and insightful. Want to join me? Check it out here.
Recent writing:
Connect with me on Instagram to read reflections on friendship, moving out and 12 years of marriage.
Recently, I was driving my oldest son to school, kind of in autopilot mode, when he called “Moooom, look!” (If I had a penny for the number of times I’ve heard this son say this exact phrase I’d be independently wealthy.)
“What is it Jack?” I asked, my voice tight as a rubber band stretched beyond capacity. I was busy trying to make it through a yellow light, caught up in my own thoughts, making mental calculations regarding whether we’d arrive on time.
The traffic light flashed and we were stuck at a stoplight. “The leaves!” Jack said, his voice rising. “Do you see them falling?”
I looked up and sure enough, a spiral of cinnamon and scarlet-colored leaves were falling, twirling and cascading in the breeze. My breath caught, then grew easier. I thanked Jack for his announcement.
In a recent essay for Coffee + Crumbs, Molly Flinkman wrote, “The more days of motherhood I am given, the more significance I find in the simplest and most mundane things. These are moments and interactions that could be overlooked or written off or even considered silly. Instead, when I pay attention, I find big lessons here.”
I often resist noticing the loveliness of change and instead harp on how uncomfortable it is. My son reminded me to embrace its holiness. Children wake us up to hidden wonders, don’t they?
Later, at the park with Adam, I picked up a scarlet leaf and marveled at its fleeting beauty. The little things do offer the biggest lessons, I suppose.
That’s it for your October/November issue. Look for Nourish again this December.
Grace and peace,
Erin
P.S., Nourish has almost reached 400 readers(!). Know someone who might enjoy this newsletter? I’d be honored if you invited them to subscribe.
I’ve been thinking about the patience Of ordinary things, how clothes Wait respectfully in closets And soap dries quietly in the dish, And towels drink the wet From the skin of the back. And the lovely repetition of stairs. And what is more generous than a window? —Pat Schneider
Needed these reminders for Election Day! And love getting a glimpse into the gift and challenge of moving and settling in.
Goodness, moving can be so hard. It's interesting because I'm currently working on a post about this idea of liminal spaces, which you mentioned here! It seems that many of us are feeling that way right now. Also - that poem at the end gave me chills! I'm going to copy it into my commonplace journal!! <3