My parents are moving out of my childhood home. The house where I grew up, in the neighbourhood where so much of my life happened, will soon belong to someone else. And I’m on the other side of the planet, trying to process what it means to say goodbye to a place I haven’t lived in for years.
The grief that comes with immigration doesn’t arrive all at once. Sometimes it appears years later, in the middle of an ordinary conversation, when you realize that another piece of the life you left behind is disappearing. Life back home continues without you. People grow older, friends move away and neighbourhoods change. You hear about these changes through phone calls and photographs, often without the chance to experience them yourself. Sometimes, what hurts most is realizing you didn’t know the last time was the last time.
Every time I moved to a different place, I’ve packed my belongings, decided what was worth carrying, and learned to let go of a little more. Over the years, I’ve become less attached to objects and physical spaces. I’ve learned that I can create a sense of belonging in unfamiliar rooms and make a home in places where I once knew no one.
Home became something much bigger than a place. It’s the feeling of being known without having to explain yourself. The comfort of familiar voices, the memories that return unexpectedly, the people who make you feel like you belong.
What’s particularly strange is that I’m moving too. In the exact same week my parents are leaving our childhood home, I’m moving into a new place, thousands of miles away.
We’re both packing boxes, choosing furniture and imagining where things will go. When I realized the timing, I couldn’t help but smile at how strangely life works sometimes. Then my mom told me she had chosen a green couch for their new home. I had chosen a green couch too. Such a small coincidence, yet it made me unexpectedly emotional.
Lately, I’ve been discovering how much of my mother I carry within me. Sometimes it’s in the things I like, the decisions I make, or the way I respond to situations. Sometimes I hear myself saying something and realize it sounds exactly like her.
The older I get, the more similarities I discover between us. It’s funny how much of our younger years we spend trying to become our own person, only to grow older and recognize the people who shaped us in the smallest details of who we’ve become. Despite the distance, I keep finding pieces of her in myself.
I’ve been thinking about how strange adulthood is. We spend so much of our lives learning to embrace change, yet we never really finish saying goodbye. We make peace with one change, and eventually another arrives.
I once thought that experiencing difficult goodbyes would make the next ones easier. Maybe sometimes they do but I’m learning that being familiar with grief doesn’t necessarily make it hurt less.
I wish I could walk through our childhood home one more time. I wish I could wander through the neighbourhood, notice the little things I used to overlook, and say a proper goodbye. Now I understand that I don’t need the house to remain the same for those memories to stay with me. I’ve learned to let go of places, objects, and the idea that anything will remain exactly as I remember it. But the feeling of home is something I want to hold on to forever.
I'll miss the palm tree, the roses in the garden, and the swing.
My parents will begin making their new place feel like home, and I’ll be doing the same on the other side of the world.
And in both homes, there will be a green couch. Maybe one evening, I’ll sit on mine, call my mom while she’s sitting on hers, and tell her how much I love the colour she chose.
She may never know how much that little coincidence meant to me.
Or maybe she will.
Maybe she already does.
With Heart,
Bahar