Each new morning, the world feels faster than the day before. The sentiment of “this is almost unreal” is everywhere: in the news, in conversations, in time that swiftly disappears. This is scary, but it is also clearly out in the open. It is more or less logical, obvious, available to be researched and analyzed, put into plans and strategies. But then there is something else, quieter, but so insistent. A need that belongs only in your private world. It’s not logical. It cannot be researched, it does not offer much data for analysis; there is no assurance of good outcomes. It is not clear, but it is persistent.
You’ve never been at this threshold before.
It has been there for a while, asking for your attention quietly at first, but getting louder and louder. What does it want, what will it require? Dealing with it can feel even more daunting than avoiding, so avoidance has become comfortable. And when avoidance doesn’t work, logical reasoning does. This makes no sense. I have no time for it, no proper resources, no direction; this must go away. We hold on, and we keep things as they are. The familiar is safe, steady, reliable. It has always worked, so it should keep working. All the while, though, the unknown keeps pulling. It is beckoning in a way you cannot explain, and this feels frightening. So we hold on even stronger to the routine that no longer fits, roles we have outgrown, commitments that clearly expired.
Something in you knows, though, and that inner knowing doesn’t let you off the hook. The life you are holding in place is not the life that wants to come through. That needs to come through. So the moment comes when you say Yes. I hear you. I will do what is needed. You make a plan, and you work it. Through it all, you hold on to your home, the one constant when everything else is in motion. Your anchor. Your rock. Your fortress. But what if that anchor has a cost?
What if the home you are holding on to is holding you just as tightly? It is a mirror of who you were. A record of what your life used to be like. In the past. A home that is still wrapped around the life you are leaving cannot support the one you are entering. It can comfort you, in a strange kind of way, but it can also hold you back. Learning to tell the difference between what grounds you vs what pins you down is not easy. They can look exactly the same. A room you love can also be a room that keeps you trapped in a memory. A piece of beautiful furniture can also be the thing that blocks new energy from arriving. The difference is not in the object itself; it’s in your relationship with it.
I once worked with a woman who could not sell her home. The house was beautifully presented, ready in every way, but it was not moving. I examined the floor plan, the outdoor space, I asked all the right questions, and I still could not find the reason. Everything looked right. And then we entered a sunroom at the back of the house, and time stopped. The energy there was completely different – alive, happy, vibrant, even mischievous and giggly. I could see children there laughing and playing, not literally, but like a lasting imprint of something really joyful. As I stood there, she began to cry.
Her children had grown up in this house. She knew it was time to let it go, and she had done everything right to prepare it for sale. But she was still holding on, and the house knew. It was holding her in her grief, just as she was holding on to it. Once she could see that, once we named it and worked with it, the house sold after a few changes.
You may not have a house on the market, but you have rooms that might be doing the same thing, quietly holding you back, keeping the shape of something you have already outgrown. But you cannot hold on and let go at the same time; if something is to change, something’s got to give.
Image: Steffen Lemmerzahl
Rodika Tchi works with private clients worldwide to create homes that support health, relationships and daily life. She is the author of two published books and has been interviewed by Psychology Today, Business Insider and Elle Décor.
Share
