Moving Pains

Photo credit: Mark Walz, CC BY 2.0.

I do not, in general, like getting rid of things. As a child I was known for taking used wrapping paper home from other people’s birthday parties because I felt sad watching pretty things go to waste. In adulthood, I’ve grown out of my creepier hoarding tendencies — no one want to be friends with the person rooting through the party garbage — but still find myself attaching too much emotional significance to inanimate objects.

True to form, when I decided to move from California to North Carolina, my thoughts quickly turned to the things I’ve accumulated over the years. I acknowledge that this cross-country move will be good for my personal and professional growth (I wouldn’t be doing it otherwise), but find my inner toddler protesting nonetheless. I don’t want to give up the dining room table I built with my own two hands! I don’t want to leave behind my saggy mattress, my thrift store couch!

With unlimited resources, I would move everything I own across the country and set up shop as though nothing had changed. But here’s the reality: My furniture isn’t worth its weight in shipping.

I spent ~$850 to furnish my current place from a jumble of thrift store/DIY/Ikea sources. The online quote for a knockoff POD-esque moving cube, which is a cheaper option that full-service movers, was $2,892. My partner and I could do it for less by renting a U-Haul, but I hate driving and it would still cost ~$1,200 before gas, lodging, and psychological trauma.

I’m a few months out from the move at this point, but I expect that we will end up using a combination of Amtrak shipping for smaller items ($67 for 100 lbs) and re-buying furniture in our new (less expensive) metro area. Which is also not going to be cheap! The cost of starting over with new furniture will probably only be $1,000 less than the cost of shipping it all.

$1,000 both is and isn’t a lot of money for me right now. There’s a big part of me that wishes money weren’t an object, so I wouldn’t have to grapple with this decision. But at the same time, I know that not being able to comfortably afford what I want is a sneaky blessing — it’s forcing me to reflect on why I want the things that I want.

Do I really care that much about my furniture? In some cases, yes. I do love my scrap-wood table, and feel proud of having built it. For the majority of my stuff, though, wanting to hang on has more to do with my fear of the uncertain future than any concrete attachment to the items themselves. What if I get rid of this bed and AM NEVER HAPPY AGAIN? I wonder while lying awake at night.

It’s a false equivalency, I know. Just because I have a good life here, with this particular stuff, does not mean that I won’t have a good life without it. I’ve moved quite a few times over the past six years, and each time have worried that the apartment I was leaving held some key to my emotional well-being without which I’d be lost. I felt bad about abandoning spaces that brought me joy, as though choosing to move forward meant I was not grateful for what had come before. After each move, I’ve looked back and realized all that worry was totally bananas.

So probably it’s a good thing that I have to choose. If I didn’t, I might spend an extra grand just to avoid sorting out whether or not I’m using my couch as a metaphor for my youth and glory days.

It’s not a very comfortable couch.

Sab has accidentally chosen the wandering life. She currently lives in San Francisco.

This story is part of The Billfold’s I Want It Now series.

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