Grief in Cardboard Boxes

The disenfranchised grief of starting over

I was living in the first house my husband and I purchased when my mom died in 2022. She was an integral part of the process—the closing, coming along for the ride during final walkthroughs, furniture shopping—and the memories created in the space my growing family called home for just over five years.

The irony was that when we originally purchased the home, we called it our “five-year plan,” anticipating we’d move to something a little larger, with more land, in our dream neighborhood a few years down the road.

Then we realized we already had all we needed. We were content with the space where we started our family and loved all the ways we made that house our home.

Yet—with great loss comes great realizations. My husband, who had also lost his mom the year before mine, stopped forcing himself into a box at his finance job and chose to pursue his dream of re-joining the U.S. Navy, this time as an Officer. Life was too short to play small.

I had over a year to slowly detach myself from the home—a solid “anticipatory grief,” if you will. But suddenly it was the week before the move. Each day I came home from work, more of the house was packed into mighty cardboard boxes. Our home became a maze of bubble wrap and memories.

We weren’t just moving—we were walking away from an entire way of life. Every goodbye felt like ripping off a wax strip. Saying goodbye to my children’s school and the teachers who cared for them so deeply, who supported us immensely while I was solo parenting during my husband’s military duty, broke my heart in quiet ways.

The only career I have ever known—the school I worked at for over 13 years—was coming to an end. Saying goodbye to colleagues and superiors who offered glowing remarks about my work felt both affirming and devastating.

There were also the goodbyes to friends—the kind that don’t feel real until you’re in the car afterward. One last girls’ day before I left reminded me that I was walking into a new life without my safety net. No familiar faces down the street. No quick coffee dates or last-minute playdates. Just the knowing that the people who held me through so much would now be held at a distance.

And of course, my family. The little village that supported us through this season of transition will now live hundreds of miles away. The idea of hosting gatherings, birthday parties, and casual weekend dinners is something I now have to reimagine. What once felt automatic will take intention, planning, and patience—and that realization carries its own unexpected grief.

But most of all, it was stepping into a new life—different, exciting, full of possibility—that my mom would never know.

The secondary loss arrived loudly once again. I felt echoes of my initial acute grief: guilt for leaving and “moving on,” pain and despair from wanting nothing more than to call my mom, confusion over how everything happened so fast.

Grief doesn’t only live in death—it lives in transitions, in growth, in the lives we continue to build without the ones who were meant to witness them. This move wasn’t just a change of address; it was a reckoning with how much love once lived here, and how deeply it still does.

I carry my mom with me into this next chapter—not in the walls of a house, but in the courage to keep choosing a life that feels honest, meaningful, and full. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

Grief has a way of resurfacing when we least expect it. What are some unexpected ways it’s shown up for you? Let us know in the comments.

By: Kera Sanchex

Get Griefy Editor-in-Chief