House that Built Me

Growing up is weird.  You think you're an adult, you think you have this big life and you've moved on from all those things you were when you were younger.

Then you drive away from doing your sister's wedding invitations at your mom's, with boxes of memories in the car, and realize it was probably the last afternoon you will have spent there and just sob.

It's the house I grew up in.  It both broke me, and put me back together again.

The last place my family was a family, in the original sense.  The last place where memories of my life with my dad were, before life went upside down on us.

It's a strange feeling because I have my own home for the past three years, but that house is such a part of my life, and in a about a week it'll be gone.

Well not gone, gone, but I can't exactly walk in anymore can I?

No seriously, can I?

Packing up 22 years of a home has been emotional.  I found things I completely forgot about, and discovered other things I am thrilled to walk away with.

I'm not ready to close the door, but I never would be.

It's the right time now.

So I'll just be over here listening to Miranda Lambert's "House that Built Me" and crying for the next week or so.

xoxo,
Erin