A few weeks ago, we found our dream home. Tucked away on a quiet street in a quaint neighborhood, stood an unassuming double-brick Victorian, covered in ivy, and inside, finished to our taste with all of the bells and whistles. It was a just a stone’s throw away from friends, and a 5-minute walk to my partner, Shawn’s, new office. It was perfect. We put in a strong offer, we had no conditions, we put smiley faces on all of the cheques and forms, we got along great with the neighbor, who promised to put in a good word for us.
As we awaited the call from our Realtor, we distracted ourselves over a bowl of Pho at a local Vietnamese restaurant that we dragged ourselves to in an attempt to avoid sitting on the couch in silence. We ran through the options in our head and convinced ourselves the home must be ours, but in the end, the call started and ended with, “overbid by $80,000.” At first, we weren’t really upset. We thought, “Well, they can have it!” But over the following week, I began to go through the whole spectrum of emotions from apathy, to being sad about it, to confused, to where I find myself now: in a state of suspension. I had begun picturing myself there; waking up and having coffee on the back deck off the kitchen; working in the upstairs loft. It felt strange realizing that someone else would be living in the house that I had so many intimate pictures of on my iPhone.
At a certain point, I started over-exaggerating the home’s con-list and convincing myself that it wasn’t the one — and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it would have been a mistake and come with myriad issues. Maybe it wasn’t the right time. And maybe, just maybe, the grass isn’t always greener. In this case, it certainly wasn’t — there was literally no grass to be had: the yard was all beautiful gardens, but it was small. See? Again, another comparison you run through in your brain when this happens. Another pro and con.
Since then, we’ve been to dozens of other homes and visited countless open houses, all ending in disappointment, but all punctuated by coming home to our current nest, which has birthed in me a kind of nostalgia. If nothing else, the experience has left me thankful for what I do have and with a newfound appreciation for certain aspects of the space that I had taken for granted. Though where we are isn’t the place I want to raise my family in the long run, I’m finding myself falling back in love with it for what it has been for us. As I type this, I’m sitting in my large, lush backyard listening to the birds as my puppy, Piper, rolls around, covering herself in pieces of fresh-cut grass as she gnaws on a stick in the shade under our large catalpa tree. And perhaps, that says it all. Sometimes there’s beauty to be found in surrendering. –Sabrina