Unpacking the Box, Listing the House, Keeping the Heart
(Or, What 15-Year-Old Me Taught 44-Year-Old Me—And Vice Versa)
The house is officially on the market.
I feel like I did in high school or college—when I had a big test or project due, and I knew I’d pull it off somehow, but never quite knew how. And once it was done, the studying and worrying all blurred together like a movie I watched half-asleep.
Getting the house on the market feels exactly like that.
It took family, friends, and neighbors. One giant shipping container. Months of planning trash runs just to avoid the cost of a dumpster. I even treated myself to a professional move-out clean. I couldn’t afford it, but I did it anyway—because I was too exhausted to do the job right, and because it was the same company that cleaned my home for free (twice) during my first rounds of treatment. (Thank you, All in a Touch Cleaning & Cleaning for a Reason.)
And while I’m still a little stunned it actually happened (maybe that’s why I suddenly have a headache and a cough today), I’m sitting in the swirl of all the things: sad, proud, excited, disappointed, and complete.
That’s why I’ve been intentional about calling this beloved lot on Dufton Road “the house” now—not my home.
It was mine. But that’s just no longer the case.
Getting ready for this unplanned move (the plan was to stay until Briggs graduated high school—he starts 9th grade this fall) meant making more hard decisions about what to keep and what to finally, fully release.
At 44, I finally tossed the massive pickle jar filled with letters and notes from age 12 through my early twenties. And for the first time as an adult, with a commitment to purge, I went through the “box” my mom gave me—the one she made for each of her four kids, filled with childhood mementos.
She gave me mine when Ken and I bought our home in Billerica in 2007. I’ve gone through it more times than I can count. Kindergarten report cards. The Don’t Worry Be Happy sweatshirt from my figure skating show with Fitchburg’s Wallace Figure Skating Program. I would’ve sworn I knew everything in there.
So now felt like the time to pare it down—to keep what might matter to Briggs, or maybe even his kids, when I’m no longer around to tell the stories.
I kept my parents’, Debbie and Todd’s, wedding album. I kept the red monogrammed 2T sweater and the tiny hospital shirt Burbank sent me home in.
And somehow, I still found two things I’d never seen before.
The first was a tiny, gold-colored trinket bracelet—a heart-shaped charm holding what I’m pretty sure is my very first hospital photo. It was sealed in a small, white, plastic envelope with faint red markings.
I was so taken aback, I actually asked myself out loud, “Am I allowed to open this?”
Then I laughed. I’m a grown-up. I can do what I want.
I opened it. Inside was the bracelet—and I’ve been wearing it ever since.
The other surprise was in the back of an old journal I’d never reread. I thought it was from around the time I was Briggs’s age now (14), and I was right.
I read him a few pages and asked, “Who does this sound like?”
He smirked and said, “Me.”
I nodded. “So maybe you can believe me when I say I understand how your brain works. I don’t always know what you’re thinking or feeling, but I get how you interpret the world.”
He was probably just tired, but he hugged me and said, “I know.”
I’ve never wished harder for something to be true.
He went to bed, and I flipped through the rest of the blank pages. I was thinking maybe I’d start writing in it again. And that’s when I found the list.
A wish list from when I was 15. It went like this:
Wishlist
iw (I think that meant “I wish…”)
trust
unconditional care
faith
belief
honesty
smiles
fun
guilt-free conversation
good imagination
no judging
no questioning
no crying
(blank)
My first thought?
Fuck. I’ve always been me.
Because nowhere on that list is money, security, or a fat 401(k)—and none of those things are mine now.
But the things I wished for?
Number two stuck with me. “Unconditional care.” I can’t be sure why I chose that over “unconditional love,” but part of me wonders if love felt too far out of reach. And if you’ve worked with me, you know I hate lists. When I do make them, I usually throw in something that feels achievable.
Still, I told that 15-year-old: You crushed number two. You gave and received unconditional care and love. Many times. You’re not done yet.
And the rest? 1 through 9? Done. Held. Still here.
Number 10? Still working on not judging yourself—but you’ve made real progress. And maybe that work never ends. I think once someone’s truly beyond all judgment, they’ve hit enlightenment. And I’m not sure you get to be both divinely enlightened and human.
So I’m still human. Thank God.
Number 11 and 12—okay. Let’s assume “no questioning” meant “no overthinking,” because questioning is one of your superpowers. It’s essential to storytelling. Keep it. The rumination? We’ll keep working on that.
And 12? Crying is necessary. It’s good. I think you meant crying all the time, over everything. The deep dark kind. And that kind of crying? I get it. I’ve lived it. But I don’t fear it anymore. I think the ones who carry the deep dark don’t ever lose it completely—but our time in it gets shorter, and it brings back some wild humor on the other side.
And you know what? We have an almost embarrassing amount of smiles, and laughs, and an imagination that just won’t quit.
This house on Dufton Road nurtured all of that.
And so will the next one.
Back in the day, when teenagers developed their own version of cursive & print. :)