On Sunday my Aunt Jill, Missy, cousin Nedge, and sister tried to prolong the weekend as long as possible. In full on gusto-grabbing mode we chased the sun all day until it finally went down behind the mountains and Hannah had to hit the road back to Asheville if she hoped to make work the next morning. But just before our Sunday funday ended, we slowed the boat down, turned on our “cove playlist” and soaked up the last few minutes on the water.
I had been on a day-long search for a position that would give my back some relief from the constant tightness and stretching, and found myself on the front seat of the boat with sister. Jokingly I laid back on her, expecting her normal reaction of pushing me off and scoffing at the idea that she would allow me to use her as a pillow. To my surprise she not only let me lay back, but wrapped her arm around me to make me more comfortable. Within a minute or so the whole boat got quiet, and I could feel her chest rise and fall in quick spurts, then big breaths. I knew she was crying. I refused to look around because I could tell everyone on the boat had gone quiet, and I couldn’t handle seeing the tears on anyones faces. I was doing all I could to fight back my own.
For a few moments I felt my throat close up, my chest tighten, and my eyes burned. I desperately tried to find any other thought to fill my head and take away the feeling of sadness and disregard the ending that is coming in a matter of days.
It’s those moments that make moving feel like your whole world is ending.
It’s also those moments that I have to fight to take a step back and remember that it isn’t.
Turkey is only two years. With any luck I’ll be back home, with a new baby, in just four months. In less than a year, family will start making trips to our new home to visit and explore places they’ve never been (and probably never thought they would go). In less than two weeks I will finally have my husband back. In three months we will welcome our first child. In a matter of days we will finally get to live overseas, fulfilling a lifelong dream of ours.
Our world isn’t ending. In so many ways it’s just beginning.
I hate to always seem insensitive to my family by shutting down morose conversation discussing us leaving, I hope they realize my heart is tearing in two as well, but I seriously can’t think about leaving and what and who we will miss, if I’m ever going to survive.
It always feels as if the heartbreak is ongoing. A wrestling match between an insatiable desire to see the world, and an unending love for my family. And often, a wrestling match between being with my husband and being with my family, as the two seldom seem to coincide. My happiness seems to live in two separate worlds and I wonder if I would explode if the two ever came together.
It’s a clash of crazy excitement, met with the sadness of leaving. The thrill of the unknown, met with the loss of the comforts that create the “home” you know and love. The need to move on, met with the feeling that you are leaving everyone behind. And the realization that you don’t know if there will ever be a solution that leaves you, and those you love, content.
I keep reminding myself to be thankful I was able to be home for two months instead of one…and that I got to come home at all. To appreciate that I still have almost two weeks left, which was the amount of time I considered to be substantial when we were able to come home from South Dakota to visit for Christmas.
I’m having a hard time leaving feeling like I didn’t “live it up” while I’ve been here. Unfortunately the summer months aren’t a time when everyone is off work and available to play. In some ways it feels like I’ve barely seen anyone or done anything. But that’s another situation where I can’t dwell on what I have or haven’t done.
Moving both sucks, and is wonderful all at the same time.