The Magic Was Never In The Building

One of the questions I've been asked most often lately is whether I'm sad about selling our house.

It's a fair question. After all, we've lived here for almost nine years. This is the house where we raised our boys, celebrated birthdays and Christmases, and created countless memories as a family. It's also the house where I cared for Mum during her final months. If walls could talk, these ones would certainly have a story to tell.

So people are often surprised when I tell them that no, I'm not really sad.

At least, not in the way they expect.

Over the last few months, as we've prepared for Norway, we've also been preparing our home for sale. In the process, we've sold, donated, gifted, recycled and let go of an extraordinary amount of stuff. Cupboards have been emptied, boxes sorted, and long-forgotten treasures rediscovered before being passed on to someone else.

I thought I might find that difficult. Instead, I've found it surprisingly liberating.

Somewhere along the way, I've realised how much meaning we attach to things. A bowl that belonged to a family member. A piece of furniture. A keepsake tucked away in a drawer. We convince ourselves that these objects are somehow responsible for holding our memories. But what I've discovered is that letting go of the object doesn't mean letting go of the person.

I haven't forgotten the people I love because I no longer own something that belonged to them. The stories remain. The memories remain. The love remains. Perhaps that's because the important thing was never the object itself. It was always what it represented.

The more I've thought about it, the more I've realised the same thing is true of this house. I love this home. I love the colourful walls that made it feel like ours. I love the vintage posters we've collected over the years. I love the memories tucked into every room. But when I really strip it back, this house is timber and glass and paint and floorboards.

The magic was never in the building.

The magic was in the people who lived here.

It was in birthday candles and family dinners. It was in laughter, tears, milestones, and ordinary days that didn't feel significant at the time but somehow became part of our family's story. It was in watching two little boys grow into the young men they're becoming. It was in caring for Mum. It was in all the moments that happened here, rather than the place itself.

Soon, our family will be split across two countries for a little while. Luke will head to Norway first while the boys and I stay behind with Luke's wonderful Mum Julie, until it's our turn to join him. That part won't be easy. There will be days when the distance feels very long, and moments when our family feels incomplete. But even then, I know where home is.

Home isn't this house.

Home isn't a postcode, a collection of possessions, or a particular set of walls.

Home is the people I love. As long as we're together, eventually, that's enough for me.

Perhaps that's the greatest gift this whole process has given me. It's reminded me that home was never something we owned. It was something we created and that's something we can build again anywhere in the world.

Even on the other side of it.

Med kjærlighet og vennlighet (with love and kindness),

Alicia

PS - Photos were all taken by Jason McNamara - Photographer extraordinaire and Real Estate Agent.