It has been a year, since we moved from the home that I raised my children in. I have friends asking me, how is it? Do you like it? Are you getting used to the small size? This morning as I sipped my tea I looked about and reflected. How do I feel? How has it been moving from 3,000 square feet to 900?

My husband and I have opposite tastes in decorating, entertaining and lifestyle. When you own a small apartment condo these differences are more obvious than in a larger home.  There is less room for anything, including compromise. My vision of a small, antique parlor vibe quickly went out the door to become more of an urban eclectic with a mancave twist.

My home office shrunk from a whole room to an alcove that has spotty reception, so I sit in my car to hold telephone meetings.  Working from home with a husband who has retired has its’ challenges. Either he must hide in his room while I host a zoom meeting, or I must find a coffee shop to work at when he entertains his friends. I am grateful of the attempt he makes to keep quiet and find things to do during working hours, as much as a guy can keep quiet…and he has become very proficient at grocery shopping and running errands for me. It works, it just was a big change for me. And for him.

The dog, whose backyard is now a busy street that he must run to whenever nature calls, he has even adjusted. He loves the cement patio that he lays on and watches the neighbors passing and the deer grazing on the garden bushes. The smell of the flowers from the Mayday trees fills this community.  It truly is a beautiful complex to live in.

What isn’t working is any healing of my grief. My grief is too big for this small place. I struggle with the missing pieces, literally, the things that are not able to be with us, like my aunt’s dresser and my round puzzle table. I miss the ability to go to a different level of the house when I need to cry or scream.  Or just be alone. There is no solitude in 900 square feet.  I enjoy my new space.  My grief doesn’t. It wants its own room.

I take my grief with me, outside of this little place. I take it to the park and walk with it. I take it for a car ride and let it overwhelm me in an empty parking lot.  I take it to the mountains when I can. Which isn’t often enough. I am finding new ways to cater to it over the last year while I unpack and purge, trying to carve space in my tiny home to accommodate my very large grief.

Grief is like an over packed room, chaotic and unsettled. If we treat our grief like a move, finding places for it and clearing the way to put comfort, love and hope on our shelves, our grief might just settle in amongst these things. Grief never goes away.  It requires its own space. I must find room for it and perhaps then, it will become a less noisy roommate.