Tomorrow is Christmas Eve – and the beginning of the last Christmas my kids will have in their childhood home. I’m typing in the glow of the lit-up Christmas tree they helped me trim weeks ago with the ornaments that one collects during an adult lifetime. It’s a bittersweet feeling for sure.

My home – their home, the home I’ve lived in the longest in my 52 years – will go on the market this spring. It’s the home I bought and remodeled with their dad, the home I thought my grandkids would visit. But for a variety of reasons, it’s time to let it go.

My love and I have been purging closets and bookshelves and file cabinets for a few months now. We’ve been looking for a much smaller residence in a more walkable “downtown” area. We’ve been prepping my son for the transition and being realistic about our (my) own transition. It’s been a mixed bag of anxiety and excitement. Mostly, I’m ready to move forward and leave the memories (and the traumas) that happened here behind.

It’s hard, though, to sit here looking at the Christmas tree and not remember the patter of little pajama-clad feet on Christmas morning rushing to see what Santa brought. Or the birthday parties. Or the photos before the high school dances in front of the fireplace. Or the hugs and laughter and tears and love that happened under this roof. It makes me cry.

Then I remember that it’s not the walls or floors of this house that make it a home. It’s the love we shared here. It’s us – this family we’ve created – who make it “home.” And while we celebrate this last Christmas under this particular roof, I know we’ll have many more under other equally lovely roofs – ours or our children’s – and I take a deep breath, dry my tears, and smile.

All is calm.

All is bright.