Who knew that the lingering adjustment from the big life change of unexpectedly moving homes would be getting off the correct exit on the highway.
This is the thing, it turns out, that my brain is having the hardest time accepting.
I’ve lost count of how many times I stay in my old exit-only lane, on autopilot doing the drive I did regularly for three years. I see all the other cars moving out of exit-only to stay on 84 and think nothing of it until I’m about to get off the highway, realizing my mistake and moving over quickly. Now, I have to keep going a few more exits, which still feels foreign and weird.
The familiar no longer fits, and it’s uncomfortable.
I think about all the other ways my body and brain hold onto familiarity when it no longer serves me. When it harms me, even.
I think about how when I finally come out of a deep, dark hole of a depressive time, a sliver of light poking through and a discovery of some solid ground beneath my feet that allows me to breathe and regroup . . . part of me feels sad that I no longer feel sad. (I know. I know.) But when I reflect on this, it makes sense — living in that deeply sad place is, sadly, very comfortable for me. It’s where I often lived for a very long time as a child, all the way through young adulthood and sometimes even now. It became my refuge, a comfort, in a way. And so now, part of me wants to hold onto it, go back there. Even though logically I much prefer being stable and happy and okay, it almost feels like a betrayal to let go of the sad place.
I think about how even though I made the very brave decision to walk away from a relationship that was mostly-good but also very much not a match for my nervous system, I often miss it. It was difficult in a lot of ways, but it was familiar, it was comfortable, it was what I knew for two years. My brain and body want to hold onto what they know, even when it’s become clear that that relationship is no longer good for them.
I think about how I hated so much about my old apartment — the severely sloped floors, the lack of direct sunlight, the thin walls and loud neighbors. My new home is an actual house, not even an apartment, with improvements like a second bedroom, a basement with laundry, an updated kitchen, and a backyard patio. It’s a major upgrade, and yet my system is holding onto my old apartment, almost wishing for it back. It was my safe, comfortable, familiar place for years, and it makes sense that my body wants to stick with what it knows. This boggles my mind, since logically I understand that the place I’m currently in is a much better fit for me, and I spent so long disliking my old space.
And yet, I fall back into that well-worn track of what’s comfortable.
New and foreign and unknown is often uncomfortable. It might even not feel safe, at first, making me want to cling to the familiar. And this is when my adult self needs to step in and gently remind me, “This is an old bonding place. This served you in the past, but doesn’t anymore. We can honor it and make space for the feelings, and then turn once again towards support, even if it feels uncomfortable at times.” Over and over again I do this, with things like depression and breakups and moving.
When I was 28 I made the bold decision to let go of pretty much everything that felt familiar — my job, my apartment, my boyfriend, my city. I traveled to the other side of the globe by myself, backpacking across Southeast Asia and then living in Australia. It wasn’t predictable, it was full of unknowns, and there was no familiarity to comfort me.
And this was one of the best decisions of my life.
If I had stayed in a job that felt too small for me, a relationship that wasn’t quite right, an apartment with three other roommates . . . I might have never had the opportunity to grow and expand as much as I did at that time. If I had stuck with what I knew, even when it wasn’t a good fit, I might have missed out on a whole lot.
And so I continue to remind myself. When there’s a part of me that wishes I could go back and “comfortably” remain in my apartment, in my relationship, in my feelings, I take care of that part of me (which is usually a much younger place, in need of love). I offer her a hug and remind her that we’re not doing that anymore, setting a limit like you might with a small child.
And I turn back to what’s here: a safe cozy home, the freedom to do life as it suits me, a calm nervous system. I let myself take it in and soak up the ways these things are supporting me. Even when they feel scary and unfamiliar and unknown.
Here is where I want to live.