We’ve all been there and most of us probably agree: moving stinks. Even when it’s chosen, contextualized as an adventure, we enter the unknown. We move into the territory of transition and a massive layer of comfort – or several – is stripped away.

When that layer is taken off, that layer of comfort of knowing what is next, that certainty of being able to rely on something, on someone, on, well, many people, and systems and structures to just show up for you the way they did yesterday, life can feel very uncomfortable. The nice cashier at the local grocer, knowing which dry cleaners is best, having that playdate on Tuesdays, how long that light at the intersection stays yellow… It’s a miracle to feel that way, that rested, and knowing and certain.

Moves come in all shapes and sizes and distances and tenors. Mine comes along with seven months pregnancy, four year old adjusting to a new school, husband’s uncertain work situation, leaving a house of eight years, “only” moving an hour and two states away. And then a few last minute unforeseen variables – snow and more snow, two stomach flues and the never ending cold. I’ve lost some major layers of comfort.

When that layer of certainty is dismantled, as clearly as the bookshelves and the office desk and pictures on the wall, we may be left feeling raw and vulnerable. And in my vulnerability and curiosity about making transitions a powerful experience, it led me to experiment with my process. What I discovered is that one day at a time works. One box, one breath. (Read Transition Prayer) My reality is dependent on how I think, my attitude, my rate of breath, what thoughts I linger on, allowing my emotions to move through me. I also asked: “What’s the next right thing? What needs my attention next?” Pack another box, or rest? Make a call to a friend or have a cry? Walk upstairs to get the tape, or ask for help? When I allowed myself to flow I found myself following the trajectory of the stages of transition and relaxing, feeling peaceful and even, dare I say it, gratitude.

Those inquiries drew me right into the domain of sufficiency. I actually spontaneously started to say thank you for everything. My back hurts and the sink is full of dishes? Thank you. My child is throwing up every hour and we are out of towels? Thank you. The box that was meant for our new space is in storage instead? Thank you.

This place of gratitude is beyond personality, because mine definitely did not come equipped – I am more likely to have a rock’n Pity Party, and ask Why Me? Why Now? Really?!?Experiencing one of the most stressful, vulnerable and uncertain times with presence and grace was a generous gift of being open to the truth – and miracle – of sufficiency.

So now I ask: What if all our vulnerabilities, every single discomfort we ever felt, was an actual doorway into our greatest freedom – freedom to feel joy or peace or relaxed or present? Even with our sadness, disorientation, grief and loneliness? How would life look if we didn’t relate to vulnerability as a problem, but as an asset, a doorway into that which we desire – e.g. the fun parts of transition? I didn’t know I could take all of it with me, but it is possible to hold both. I can experience the uncomfortable emotions of uncertainty, loss of identity, and countless other losses that are part and parcel of transition, along with the excitement of adventure and the unknown, the clean canvas for creation – and be grateful I had a choice.

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