Overcoming the Fear of Downsizing

So you’re considering downsizing. Good for you!

Just don’t wait too long. If you’re thinking it might be a good idea to sell your big house and find something smaller, there’s a 99% chance it’s the right move right now.

Why would you even be thinking about it if you didn’t know in your heart it was the best thing to do?

That little voice in your head is the voice of wisdom. Don’t overthink it. It’s like when you’re second-guessing whether to wear that almost-too-short skirt to the office party. That one you wore in the 90s, that your ex said was smokin’ hot… yeah, you probably shouldn’t wear that.

In this case, when you’re thinking, “There’s a smaller house in my future,” that in itself is your clue… DO IT!

The sooner you start, the better.

Now that you’re beginning to entertain the idea of going smaller, you’re probably wondering how to begin going about it.

Especially if you’re the type who still has leather skirts in your closet from 25 years ago. (You’ve got some work ahead of you.)

My downsizing project began about a year ago. Since then I successfully moved from a 4000 square foot house in the Hill Country to a townhome half the size, closer to Austin.

I won’t lie: there are a few things about the downsizing process I’m glad I didn’t know going in.

I stumbled into the ordeal shortly after a strange, short spree with someone all wrong for me, and a sobering talk with my financial advisor. These two incidents, all within a week or so, tipped me over the edge.

Although I’d been considering downsizing for a couple of years since my divorce, for some reason I stayed in the house. After all, I’d raised the kids there for 19 years. Why should I up and move? I would make it work.

Staying two years too long, I even entertained thoughts of digging in for good.

I imagined grandkids, a second marriage, a pool or studio out back… all the pipe dreams I entertained when my ex-husband and I first moved in. I’d do all those things — just on my own.

I replaced the floors, redecorated the media room, invested in landscaping, painting, new lighting, and other money-sucking projects that big, old house seemed to need.

I did these things, knowing the inevitable was somewhere around the bend.

Remember that small, wise voice you’re trying to ignore? My gut heard it loud and clear, but my head wasn’t on board.

What was I afraid of?

Moving out just seemed like too much trouble. I blame it on the abundance of storage. There were closets and attic space, filled to capacity with memories, gifts, hobby equipment, and half-finished projects.

How do you begin to get through it? We’d accumulated 30 boxes of Christmas decorations, many of which hadn’t been opened in years. The library cabinets concealed yearbooks and pictures of ancestors I never met and couldn’t name. Hidden under the attic eaves lurked trunks full of trophies, mangled ribbons, and tins of pins commemorating a band concert or science club, c. 1984.

The mountain of things sucked me in as if they possessed their own gravity field. I dreaded the task of Marie Kondo-ing through every item.

But the real reason I stayed too long was personal. Wrapped up in all the stuff was my identity. My roles as mother and wife (i.e. Housewife) would vanish if I cashed my chips in now.

Who would I become, post-housewife?

Those standing stone walls and surrounding yard were the only proof that I’d ever done something concrete these last 19 years.

It’s unclear whether I did these things for my family, or for myself.

What does a good mom do, anyway? The work of raising children in a remote suburb of town, far from family, and an inconvenient drive from close friends.

I once heard it said that raising small children was like trying to tape jelly to the walls.

Many days feel pointless, messy, and undocumented, so a good mom applies meaning, cleanliness, order, and historical accountability. Nothing out of the ordinary; just the standard mom-fare.

I saved my children’s art, took pictures, and stored them in books.

I baked mermaid cookies for a birthday party one year, does anyone remember? Would I even remember if not for the copper cookie cutters stored in the pantry along with other sea creature shapes?

I painted roses on my little girl’s bedroom walls, now covered by two more coats of paint. I stenciled a Native American prayer in the baby’s room: “Sun, moon, stars; You that move in the heavens; A new life has come among you; Make his life smooth.”

I read thousands of stories and listened to many more.

I pushed a bed over the bong water stain near my teenager’s window. How many nights did kids come and go through that window, not wanting to pass me to get to the front door? The overhang was just a couple steps and a brave leap to the ground. For a couple of years, a trampoline sat just to the right of the front door, for jumping off the roof.

Once, in the middle of the night, I opened the upstairs bedroom door to a roomful of noisy teens. “You came in through the window, you can leave through the window.” I became an unpopular mom. But I wasn’t always.

I built a sandbox for the kids and a treehouse. The sand is still there, spread thin beneath the bramble that grew over it. The four 2x8 planks are long gone.

I perched on a swing in the shade of a dying tree whose wide stump is now exposed to the weather. I watched the littles play there, while absently interjecting soothing corrections (“Let it be, Willie… Be gentle, H… Careful, Kate.”), alternately studying the woods, staring at the sky, and reading bits of a magazine. I listened to the small talk: “This way, THIS way, not that way. Nooo, not that way!” The crescendo of young boys’ voices, annoyed with each other, intent on the sand pile, their damp cheeks blooming with sweat and moist hair, as they worked with shovels and rocks.

I dragged hoses around the house to spray down the slide in the summers. And if I left this place, would anyone remember that?

No one remembers those things about the house. How happy I was, charging around there with all my projects and big ideas!

Does it matter how lonely I was there, too?

How many sandwiches made there, on the kitchen island? (I estimate twelve thousand.) How many light bulbs changed; and batteries; and air filters?

I could do all of this without anyone even knowing. I ran the house and the house ran me. We kept each other running.

My ex-husband was the smart one, a whiz kid engineer who grew up and into an important job that took him to the ends of the world, collaborating in bunny suits in cleanrooms; and business suits fresh from the dry cleaners, in boardrooms of semiconductor companies, followed by sushi.

I am not sure he knows to this day how many dry cleanings, light bulbs, and air filters his paychecks procured.

The house was my domain.

We split, and he moved to another house. The kids and I stayed put. I was the captain. Captain Mom. I would stay with the ship.

When I finally decided to go, I went. I landed on the other side, intact and happy. It took some time, but now I know the many reasons downsizing was the right move.

Nothing worth doing is easy. Getting the house ready to sell and finding a new place to start over was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done alone, without a partner, relying solely on my instincts to make the big decisions, and my friends for the smaller ones.

Eleven months later, the repairs, donations, and errands involved in the huge job are finally fading behind me.

The truth is, if I had known how difficult it would be at the onset, and how my will would be tested, I may have put it off longer than necessary. But I needed to get the ball rolling.

Relocating is always a ton of work. On top of that, you’ll be sorting and parting with a lot of stuff it took years to acquire.

Not sure you’re up to the job? I feel you.

But if I can do it, you can do it.

Now, if it’s your nature to throw yourself whole hog into Big Life Changes and learn as you go, then Yay, you! You’ll get through.

Since I learned everything the hard way and documented every step, I’m working on a book that will walk you through the process. I want to show you how to organize the tasks into bite-sized steps; what worked for me, and where I lost time and money doing things all wrong. You can manage the complex process of planning and timing every aspect of downsizing at once.

But before the soup to nuts version, let’s discuss that first step.

Overcoming the Fear of NOT Downsizing

I guarantee you’ll encounter dilemmas that mess with your head and heart, let alone the physical toll on your body.

And if you’re downsizing after a divorce, a death, or some other difficult life event; add a layer of emotional complexity that flavors everything with bittersweetness.

Do you remember that scene in the movie Castaway, where Tom Hanks’ character loses Wilson in the ocean upon making his escape? We all knew it was just a volleyball, an inanimate object that took the place of a companion during the otherwise lonely years on the island.

My house was Wilson.

It was a persona that accompanied me through motherhood and marriage from which I always felt disconnected as if it wasn’t really happening to me. The people I loved were never really mine.

That house, however… we had blood.

Saying goodbye to the house was like saying goodbye to a volleyball. It was just a stupid house, but if you don’t mind, I wanted to cry about it a little bit.

Here’s permission to cry, if you need it.

In fact, want to hear something crazy? Letting go of my house was harder than letting go of my marriage, even though I still love my ex, and I don’t love that house. (But that’s another story.)

The Resistance, that menacing force that tries to spin your plans off track and fragment your goals, is real. It will emerge at different stations throughout the journey.

For some cautionary guidance, read on.

What tipped the scales in favor of selling the house were the three things I feared most about NOT downsizing.

I told you what I feared about downsizing: Losing myself, wading through the memories, parsing through the stuff, the logistics, and expense of making repairs, doing a real estate deal, hiring contractors, etc.

But what tipped the scales in favor of going through with it were the three things I feared most about NOT downsizing.

1. Needing ongoing help with the house over the years.

2. Running out of money and going into debt to keep the house.

3. Never finding out whom else I could be besides Mother Jen in the big, stone house on White Horse Cove.

Three Good Reasons to Downsize After my Divorce

Needing ongoing help with the house over the years.

I turned 52 in June. I love my fifties. I don’t give a crap what anyone thinks of me. I’m beginning to be self-aware enough that I actually have things to teach and share. And I’m able to be as independent as I want.

But with age comes another form of self-awareness, and that is admitting that I’m not as physically strong as I used to be. Small aches and pains due to “false moves” and “over-doing it” begin to crop up, usually at night when I’m trying to sleep.

Recently, I’ve watched and learned from plenty of other older women I know who live alone in large houses. They share something in common that I want nothing to do with.

Waiting.

They all have to wait for someone’s aid if they need to climb a ladder, move a large box, lift a table, etc. Some have kids or friendly neighbors who come by and lend a hand. Some have more money, and they hire things done. That’s fine and all, but even then, there are still objects and odd jobs sitting around the place, undone, because they’re waiting on a little help.

Not me.

I want a tidy house I can manage on my own. I’m willing to ask for help occasionally, but if my life is put on hold on too many fronts because I’m physically unable to lift something or climb a ladder; there’s no way I’ll happily wait for someone’s schedule to free up.

It’s important to me to get shit done. I have to be able to manage things on my own.

Running out of money or going into debt to keep the house.

I made some money mistakes after my divorce; I admit it.

Mainly, I spent too much trying to make my house feel like home, only to discover that I would never really feel at home there. My old house couldn’t love me back. It was merely the place where I did my job and my main tool for raising kids. I’d always be a servant to it.

Since I’m not big on budgets, my financial advisor wrangles me into her office and reminds me occasionally that money does not replenish itself unless you do some strategic planning.

I spent an afternoon last fall crunching numbers (i.e. watching her crunch numbers), and felt the thud of Ghost of Christmas Future’s warning as I sat at her falsely reassuring conference table staring at the numbers displayed on the big screen.

She has a rather alarming bit of software that shows how long you can live on your money IF… (fill-in-the-blank) changes, or in my case, doesn’t change. I could clearly see that I was spending most of my discretionary funds on things related to the house.

I had a well, and a septic field, a propane tank, two air conditioners, dozens of windows, three acres of land, one of which was devoted to a lawn and garden beds. Every time I turned around, I was repairing something, or calling someone to do so: Prune the oaks, adjust the router for the Wi-Fi, fix a leak, replace a tile, scrape mud dauber and wasp nests from an outside wall, buy a new hinge for the bathroom cabinet upstairs, fix said hinge, etc.

My list never ended.

A house loses its luster when you don’t even live in half of its rooms, yet you give up vacations to maintain it.

That close accounting of my finances last October showed an inequality I could never justify. I wanted to have more fun from now on, I wanted time to volunteer and travel.

I wasn’t willing to spend money on a house that didn’t give back.

Now that I’m here in my much smaller place, I feel at peace that I’ll have enough money to take care of myself unless I blow it all on hats. Of course, there will always be chores and repairs, but for now, I’ve got this.

Never finding out who else I could be besides Mother Jen in the big, stone house on White Horse Cove.

I’ve always wanted to live to at least 100. I pay attention to people with silver hair who get up in years because I figure they have what I want. So I listen.

Most of these folks were OK with making changes throughout their lives. They rolled with the punches, got back up, and started again.

When you’re 95, and you recognize that your life took on a different flavor after your husband died thirty years ago, it means a segment of your life ended and you started over. When you’re pushing 100, that new chapter may have started 30 years ago, but in retrospect, it became the next significant phase in life.

A house is just a chapter in your book.

You can live more than one story in this lifetime.

These major life changes like divorce, death, starting a new career, getting married a second time… they all transition you from one persona into another. The healthiest people I know have worn many different hats.

I want to become someone new. I want to try on another role. I want to keep it fresh so that I eventually morph into a wise old somebody people still want to be with.

Now that I’m here in my Austin townhome, a new era begins. I’m a massage therapy student, I’m starting a new business, and new neighbors and friends are entering my social sphere. I’m in motion again. I can breathe.

Brave Enough

Now that I’m settled in my smaller condo, I know I’m brave enough for whatever comes. My house will never hold the same significance as it once did. I will give my attention to new people and adventures.

There will be time for new stories and no shortage of interesting ways to tell them.