Moving Forward. Not Moving On.

This weekend we emptied the cottage.

Mostly Marc’s things.

Fishing rods.

Tackle boxes.

Boat equipment.

Duck decoys with their chipped paint and tangled strings.

It was physical work, yes.

But it was heavier than that.

Every single piece I touched felt like touching him.

And I was sad.

Sad in the quiet way. The steady way. The kind that sits in your chest while you’re wrapping extension cords and stacking coolers.

And I was angry.

Angry that he left me to sort through all of this, but also heartbroken for him because I know he would NEVER choose this… for either of us.

Angry that the world — including fishing tackle and duck decoys — keeps moving like everything is normal.

It’s not normal. Nothing is anymore.

But here’s the strange part.

I’m also relieved.

Selling the cottage is a milestone.

A financial shift.

A practical step forward.

It’s one less big thing hanging over my head.

And moving forward feels… good.

Not moving on.

Moving forward.

There is a difference.

Moving on would imply leaving him behind.

I’m not doing that. I’m never doing that.

But I am allowed to take steps toward stability.

Toward less expense and less worry.

Toward a version of life that feels a little less overwhelming.

And then there’s this:

My best friend and her husband showed up.

Again.

Even when I told them not to.

Even when I said, “We’re fine.”

Even when I said, “No.”

With lunch.

With muscle.

With their girls who light up the entire space no matter how heavy it feels.

When I started sorting through the barn, and the overwhelm set in — I have never been so thankful for someone not listening to me in my life. (DO NOT tell her I said that!!)

There is something sacred about people who refuse to let you carry hard things alone.

And losing Marc showed me how many of these people I have in my life.

Grateful.

Blessed.

Honored.

Humbled — by the generosity and care from so many.

Here’s the part that surprised me the most about the cottage move:

I didn’t cry.

I always cry when I move.

ALWAYS. (Just ask my sister and brother-in-law and nieces and nephew. They’ve moved me more times than I can count and I always cry.)

Moving makes me feel unsteady and sentimental and unhinged.

But this time?

Not one tear. And if there ever should have been tears in a move — it should have been this one.

I think I’m most shocked by that.

Maybe it’s growth.

Maybe it’s shock.

Maybe I’m just stronger than I realized.

Or maybe I’m learning that grief doesn’t always have to look like collapse.

Sometimes it looks like sorting through duck decoys and choosing what moves forward with you.

This weekend was a big one.

A milestone.

A goodbye.

A practical decision.

A step.

I’m not moving on.

But I am moving forward.

And apparently, I’m still standing — in tennis shoes this time. (Duh, we were moving stuff.)