It Cost Me More Than I Say Out Loud

I’ve moved, quit, and relocated so many times I’ve lost count.

And moving is always sold as something exciting.

A new place.
A new job.
A different view from your window.
Rearranging everything.

Housing. Doctors. Hospitals. Dentist. Hairdresser. Even your mechanic.

New people.
New co-workers.
New environments.

And it is exciting.

Of course it is.

But no one talks about what is left behind.

That piano.

The one you carried through the last three places you lived in…
until the next one didn’t have space for it.

So you let it go.

The books.

The ones you already read, but kept anyway —
because one day, when you were older and wiser,
you were going to read them again.

And then one day, you take them to the nearest public library.

Not because you don’t love them.

But because you no longer need to carry them.

The clothes.

Summer dresses you wore more than once, proudly.

Now they don’t fit your life.

Not because they don’t fit you.

But because where you are going… it’s not warm enough anymore.

And then there are the people.

The ones you took time to know.
To trust.

You promised — more than once — you would stay in touch.

And you try.

But life doesn’t work like that.

They have their lives.
You have yours.

And distance… does what distance always does.

The hardest part, for me, was always something else.

Not the place.
Not even the people.

It was the shift.

The change in how you are seen.

In one place, you are known.
You don’t have to explain yourself.

You are appreciated.
You trust your rhythm.

In some places, I was seen.

Not just for what I did, but for how much I cared.

I was called passionate. Precise. Reliable.

And I believed it, because they did.

But when I moved…

not everyone saw that in me.

And I learned something quietly:

not every place knows how to recognize you.

So I gave it time.

And when it wasn’t there…

I moved on.

And then you start again.

Proving everything again.
Explaining yourself again.

Trying to understand what you bring to a place that doesn’t yet understand you.

After a while, you stop attaching too much to anything.

Because you already know…

you might have to leave again.

For me, it was always simple.

I’ll try it.

And I did.

I fought.
I cried.

And when things didn’t go my way…

I planned my exit carefully enough that no one noticed.

But the place I lived in — that was different.

That had to be mine.

Because where you sleep, you are the boss.

You choose the colors.
You move things around.
You make it feel like you belong there.

Even if it’s only until the lease ends.

And still…

some people stay.

They don’t disappear completely.

They text, now and then.

A simple message.

A “good luck.”

And those are the ones that matter.

Because no matter where I land next…

I know they will still be there.