Saying Goodbye

They’ve already done it. They’ve already thrown me to the “real life” wolves but now, now they’re moving.

I had a great childhood. I’m not going to lie, I was extremely lucky to grow up where I did. Normal, upper middle class, hard working, corporate America kind of neighborhood.


I was rebelous in high school, but managed to graduate and go to college far, far away. I’ve never described myself as a homebody and I was excited to be elsewhere. I missed my friends and family and came home pretty often for holidays and summer break. Eventually after graduation and my last summer in Michigan I decided to move home, and in with the parents. My parents are, well, super chill. They have never been overbearing or controlling. I get my sarcasm, dry humor, and bluntness from them. I also get my attitude from them, but I won’t go there.


We’ve always identified as being from DC, and most of my family is still in the area. Moving to Atlanta wasn’t really an option as my dad got a legit job, so we packed up and have been here since 1994. Georgia has always been “home.” As much as I think the South is ass-backwards in a lot of ways, I can’t escape the fact that I was raised here.

I’m not sure if it’s hit me my parents are making the trek to the West Coast. They’ve made many treks before but never to a new house, in a new city, 3,000 miles away. It’s, what’s the word, terrifying. Terrifying for them and for my sister and I.

I constantly find myself on the verge of tears. Not only are they moving, but the house I grew up in is no longer mine. The cats and pups I grew up with are leaving too.

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The 30-something year old guy moving in is “odd” according to my mom, but seems to have his shit together. He doesn’t know about the cat and hamster buried in the yard, or the first morning I woke up for a new school when I was 6 years old and ate my favorite cereal, Kix. He doesn’t know about the sleepovers, my parents teaching me how to cook, and that I make the mashed potatoes every year on Thanksgiving (dating back 20 years). He doesn’t know how many mimosas we’ve consumed on Christmas morning, how may flips I’ve done in the backyard, or how many fights my sister and I have had in that house (I’d say hundreds). He doesn’t know how many times I’ve fallen up and down those stairs, or that I would practice my tennis game against the garage door. I have really great memories to hold onto from being raised in that house; it’s strange that it has come to an end.

I’m trying to grasp everything that’s happening in a positive way but my mind can’t shut off the fact that this is going to be a huge, not-so-fun adjustment. I’m dreading it more than I dread Valentine’s Day. Today’s the day I say “see you later” to the two people in the world I love the most *cue the waterworks.

I realize I’m being selfish not wanting them to leave, but I’m excited for them. I really am. I’m even jealous that they are finally moving out there. My mom has always wanted to. I aspire to have the balls to do what they’re doing. I’m planning multiple trips this year, and we already have activities lined up for when I get there. Christmas in Malibu sounds pretty damn good to me.


I’m not really sure what to expect as time goes on, but I’ll get used to it and I’ll visit often. I have my sister in town and a plethora of friends to spend holidays with if I can’t make it out there. As sad as I get thinking about all of it I know I’ll have to adapt and see this as having a fun place to visit for years to come. It’s still processing in my brain, which is currently in denial.

This is a real life “to be continued…”


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