As I walk Lars to school this morning it hits. A foreboding magnitude begins to press down on me and the looming feeling of fright is palpable. However there is nothing I can do about it since I’ve played my own key role in this massive turn of events. The only way out is to travel forward.
We’re moving. Even writing it seems surreal. We are moving to a new house, in a new city, a new school district and an entirely new place. We are venturing into unknown territory with two small children and a brain full of hopes and dreams for our future. It is the most terrifying thing I have done since bringing my two small people into this world.
As I write this at my usual spot I look around at the backdrop. I am sitting in the same kitchen we sat in with a three day old Sophie as we watched Lars blow out a wax candle shaped as the number two. It is the place where Jamie proposed to me, right here on the kitchen floor while baby Lars played in the living room below. It is the home, where in the last eight years there have been countless arguments, ridiculous nights of merriment, and so many moments forever sealed to memory. It is the place where Jamie and I have created a family.
While I am walking hand in hand with my son I quietly think about what will soon be changed. They will be attending a new school which means making new friends and building new relationships with teachers. It means saying goodbye to the people they have grown to love here. It means more change than any of us have ever dealt with as a family. It is damn intimidating.
Intimidated—that is the perfect word for how I feel right now. Will I be strong enough to assist my family emotionally in this move? Am I forthcoming enough to make the new friends I know I will need in this unfamiliar place? Will I be collected enough to stand confident even when both Jamie and I experience moments of self doubt? Yes, in the deep of my soul I know the answer is yes to all of these questions. But the intimidation still lingers unremittingly.
I can feel this lump in the back of my throat each time I think of driving away in our moving truck—towards the indefinite. I have never been as afraid as I am in this moment.
And it makes me feel undeniably alive.
This is what we live for. We are put here to make advancements, break barriers, and do something (anything) out of the ordinary. Progress cannot be made by keeping stagnant. This is how Jamie and I came to our conclusion that it was time for us to move on. We want to teach Lars and Sophie that although new endeavors can be daunting, they are essential for growth and fulfillment.
The morning is foggy as Lars and I walk. He grips my hand a little tighter.
“Everything okay sweetie?” I ask.
“I’m just really scared of the fog Mom.” He replies. “We can’t even see to the end of the alleyway. I don’t like not being able to see what’s ahead.”
His comment makes me think about how unclear our own future seems. I realize that this hazy alley behind the only home he has ever known mirrors the anxieties I have been feeling in regards to our move.
“It’s normal to feel scared when you can’t see what’s ahead of you Lars.” I give a gentle squeeze to his hand. “But we know that we have to get to school right?”
“Then we’ve got to move forwards. See, as we walk, the fog seems to fade away and the closer we get to the school the easier it is to make out. Fog isn’t that bad when you think about it, you just need to move slowly and carefully through it to be able to see clearly again.”
“You’re right Mom and it makes it better when I have someone to walk with.” He said.
Foggy areas are worrisome; one could even call them terrifying. But when you have the people you love holding your hand reminding you that there is clarity on the other side it all of the sudden doesn’t seem so scary.