Starting Over at 47 — Reclaiming My Space, Room by Room

There’s something deeply emotional — even spiritual — about reclaiming the space you live in after someone else has left it behind.

For me, it wasn’t just about moving upstairs. It was about moving forward.

After former occupants moved out (I’ve had 7 people living under my roof at one time!), what they left behind wasn’t just clutter — it was old energy, old memories, and that strange, heavy silence that fills a room when the people who used to be there no longer are. Every bag of junk I tossed, every drawer I cleared, it all felt like a small act of reclaiming. Not just the room — but myself.

But it’s not just their things I’m sorting through.

I’m also still going through my mom’s belongings. Some of her things are still here, tucked away in drawers or packed in boxes I haven’t had the heart to open in full. I’ll start with one little thing — a piece of jewelry, an old letter, her handwriting on a card — and suddenly I’m sitting there in tears, lost in a memory I didn’t expect to bump into on a random Tuesday.

There’s no guidebook for grieving while you’re rebuilding. There’s no checklist that makes it easier to let go of a sweater that still smells like her perfume. Some days, I can handle it with grace. Other days, I close the box and say, “Not today.” And that’s okay.

Reclaiming your space isn’t just about cleaning. It’s about honoring. It’s a slow, sacred process of choosing what you carry forward — and gently releasing what no longer needs to take up space, physically or emotionally.

Now that Oscar and I have made the upstairs our home, I feel the energy shifting. The TV in the bedroom. The fresh sheets. The smell of coffee in the morning. The way our laughter bounces down the hallway. It’s peaceful. It’s cozy. It’s ours.

And room by room, I’m learning that healing doesn’t always look like a grand gesture. Sometimes it’s just finally opening that closet. Letting light in. Playing your favorite song while you clean. And giving yourself permission to grieve, to laugh, to cry — and to breathe again.

This space is becoming a reflection of who I am now. Stronger. Softer. Still healing. Still standing.

And still sorting through stuff — but doing it with love.

Until next time,

Aunty Christine 🕊️🧺💛