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My sister became a published author at 28 years old.
I remember how proud and excited I was for her when I held my very own galley copy of her book in my hands. I opened it to see that she wrote a note to me on the inside cover:
“To my sister, Stacey, with love. A walk down memory lane. Thank God, we made it!”
The year was 2005, and it was a big one for both of us. I was living in Washington, D.C., and had just bought my first home, got married the year before, became a stepmother, was promoted at work in record time, and not surprisingly, had my first panic attack.
It was a terrifying experience that left me unsettled, wondering when the next attack would happen. At the time, with just 31 years of life experience, the panic attack seemed to “come out of nowhere.” One would think that almost 20 years later I wouldn’t use that same phrase to describe my body’s reaction to a near identical string of events, but alas, sometimes age doesn’t equal wisdom.
I was naïve to think that diving headfirst into reading my sister’s book would be the mental escape I longed for. I knew the topic of her book was not a “light” one, but I didn’t expect that it would take me months to get through the first chapter. I kept the book on my nightstand and must have read the first few pages twentysomething times before moving on.
There was a certain section I couldn’t move past:
“Our house had something that the others on our street didn’t. In our front yard stood a giant, old oak tree. No matter how many times my father trimmed it back, the tree seemed to grow bigger and bigger each spring. It shaded everything and prevented the sunlight from ever shining through the front windows.”
I still can’t type or read those sentences without crying.
Several pages later, she described how her sisters each dealt with our home life saying, “Stacey, the oldest, was the good girl, straightening and cleaning her room.” She made similar references throughout the book to my homemaking skills, and not until re-reading parts of the book to write this article did I realize how ingrained in me this has been, for my entire life.
I’m one of those people who doesn’t have the “travel bug,” although I’m always happy to take a relaxing vacation or travel for work. But even then, I bring the creature comforts of home with me. I’m the hotel room with the aromatherapy seeping into the hallway and the sound machine, meditation cards, crystals, and family pics all set up neatly on the dresser. To say I take my personal space seriously would be an understatement. I used to attribute it to being a Cancerian woman, a nurturer, or even being the oldest of three siblings, but I’ve come to realize that making a house a home is not only a talent, but also part of my survival instinct—a way to cope.
Enter moving. The physical act alone is daunting, not to mention the logistics, but somehow I’ve pulled off many moves in smooth fashion and may have driven those around me crazy by needing to unpack and settle in immediately in the new home, with candles burning and music playing by the end of moving day. But two moves in the span of three months was something even I struggled with.
Logistics weren’t easy, and certainly the financial strain wasn’t either. It was emotionally overwhelming because I didn’t want to move, either time, but even that overwhelm was not as surprising as how long it was taking me to feel settled. This is not something I had ever experienced before.
The first of the two moves came as a surprise and the timing was incredibly ironic. A few weeks earlier, my fiancé and I put in an application on a rental home after a lot of soul searching on my part. I didn’t feel ready, but as a show of commitment to our relationship, which was questioned because of my hesitation, I agreed to forge ahead. It happened that another family was able to move in sooner than us, so the house went to them. I decided it wasn’t meant to be and thanked the Universe for the sign.
Then, only weeks later, I learned I had to move from where I had lived with my children and pets for the past 11 years. This was a shock, so I took it as another sign from the Universe. Maybe the timing was right to take the leap after all, but that first house just wasn’t the place to leap into. We looked for homes again and found one that was perfect for our families. In fact, it was going to be the nicest home I’d ever have the privilege and good fortune to live in. Our application was accepted, and we were on our way.
Amidst the planning and packing, I was becoming increasingly anxious and voiced my concerns. Each time I was told it would all be fine, and that I was creating stories that were part of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sadly, I believed that instead of my intuition, which was speaking so loudly to me by this point that I landed myself in the hospital again. But I charged ahead, just like I did with my first marriage, because a deposit check had been cashed and I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.
And that was the beginning of the painful end.
Our three-year lease turned into a three-month lease. During those three months, I couldn’t find a way to feel settled. I tried everything to make the move and our relationship work, but I was lonelier, more anxious, and sadder than I had ever been. I lost myself and felt like a ghost wandering around my home amongst unpacked boxes. I couldn’t find myself in any of the rooms. I had only finished unpacking and setting up my home office and living room a few weeks before packing it up to move again.
I felt like my former self was at my old home in a parallel Universe living her happy life and I was in the new home, crying when it was time for my children to leave with their father for visits. Gone were the days of music playing and candles burning to feel settled in. All the dreams and hopes I had for this home, like my relationship, were just that and only that—dreams and hopes that turned into darkness and despair.
A beautiful house does not make a home. I was now certain of this, and I was devastated.
And so, the search for a new home began again. Time was of the essence and there were not many rentals available that were in my price range. Eventually, I found a townhome that I believed worked out because no one else wanted it, like an old rescue dog. It needed work, including an entirely new kitchen that wouldn’t be complete by the time I moved in, and new paint throughout, but beyond that I was on my own for all the niceties I wanted. I was sad when I toured it, but hid that from my children because they loved it. They were seeing something I wasn’t yet able to see.
The Universe knew who it was dealing with—someone who needs the more obvious signs at times—and so when I made my way upstairs, I was surprised to see someone had left a door hanger on one of the bedroom doorknobs that read, “Do Not Disturb. Writer at Work.” This, along with a beautiful flowering tree at the front entrance, made me feel welcome enough to sign the lease.
It was not an easy move in the same way the last one wasn’t, but for different reasons. Whereas the first move was fueled by hope and anxiety, this one was powered by defeat and sadness. I was on my own timeline now though, and unpacked immediately. I cleaned, repaired, and organized like I had with all the other moves in my life, but the settled feeling wasn’t there. I was surprised that it was taking me longer to feel at home than previous moves, but my therapist reassured me it would take time, just as healing from the past year’s event had taken.
I trusted this, yet continued to ask my children repeatedly how they were feeling, and each time they assured me they loved their new home. I realized I was using their surety to reassure myself that we were in the right place and didn’t want them to sense that was their responsibility—to make me feel happy or settled—so I stopped asking.
And then one day, it happened.
I was coming home from the grocery store and as I was turning onto my street, caught a glimpse of the flowering tree and felt that “I’m home” feeling. I parked in my garage and walked out to the tree. I stood there in front of all its beauty, while seeing the memories of my children and I over the last several months doing something we hadn’t ever done together before, just the three of us: we made a home. We unpacked, organized, hung pictures, picked out candles, played music, burned sage, danced, laughed, cried, held our dogs, made meals, watched TV, fixed things, built things, but most importantly, we created a sense of peace. I knew in that moment that this would be the oldest and smallest home I would ever have the privilege and good fortune to live in.
In the following weeks, I thought about my sister’s description of me in her book, and it prompted me to write this article. This past year, just like in 2005 and in my childhood, when things felt out of control around me, I tried to control what I could, what was within my realm, and that was my home environment. Maybe it’s crazymaking, but I don’t think so. We all need a place to feel peace, especially when we’re struggling to feel it in our relationships or within ourselves. It’s then, at least for me, that the home environment becomes even more important. Sometimes, I still wish that my former partner would have been interested enough in how I tick to have read my sister’s book. Maybe he would have better understood me and my need for a homey environment, though I’m not sure that would have changed anything.
At times, I wonder if part of me didn’t believe I was deserving of that big, beautiful home with a pool and all the happy memories I hoped to make there. Or maybe it was a lesson as obvious as me not listening to my intuition. Maybe it was me knowing, deep down, that I deserved more. Maybe I was naïve to forge on in that relationship, hoping it would improve, in the same way I was naïve to think reading my sister’s book would be a welcome escape at the time.
Or maybe saying, “I can’t do this anymore” was my bravest act of self-love to date.
Not many people have been to my new home, but those who have commented that “the energy is beautiful” and “the vibe is righteous.” (It is Southern California, after all). Even if they didn’t tell me this, I know it in my soul now. The flowering tree tells me I’m home, and it isn’t blocking light from entering my home like that big oak tree from long ago, as I sit here writing this article behind a closed door with the door hanger on it that someone left for me.
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author: Stacey Townsend
Image: Author's own
Editor: Nicole Cameron
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