Two boxes. A wedding dress. 

There was a bit more but that was most of it. Eleven years of memories packed into two boxes full of notebooks, letters, and tattered disposable camera film. I packed it snugly into the back of our small SUV and marveled at the weather--unseasonably warm, 77 degrees and sunny in mid-December.

My parents' marriage fell apart in a way that was so complex and maddening that I couldn't even begin to describe it. And yet I always knew that moving out of that house would be the hardest part for me. Ironic as it may sound, you can see a toxic relationship but a house is a house and it still holds some of the best memories long after your dad has left and your mom has packed everything up.

Takeout sushi and pizza in the open frame with my mom, dad, brother, and then-boyfriend while the house was being constructed--we'd walk around and picture which rooms were which and take in the gorgeous views of the lake while the sun set. Week-long sleepovers with my best friend Emma, sharing clothes and laughing until our stomachs ached and whispering back and forth in bed until sleep overtook us. High school weekends with friends, gathered around the kitchen island by day and sprawled next to each other on the couch by night. The time I left my door to the back porch unlocked so Patrick could come into my bedroom and say goodbye the morning he left for college (I forgot about the alarm and when he opened the door it went off, calling the police and everything).

There were fall and winter breaks home from school, visits from friends who lived out of town, and the feeling that anyone and everyone was welcome to the house at any time, for any reason, as long as they were willing to eat until they felt sick. It was my landing pad after graduate school when Rob was working in DC and I didn't know what I wanted to do with my career. It has always been a safe space to rest, until recently.

We celebrated our engagement at the house, I tried on my wedding dress for the first time at the house--surrounded by my mom, our wonderful neighbor and friend Linda, and my best friend and maid-of-honor Tina--and after our wedding, all the people I love in the world gathered together for brunch at the house.

My mom and I, always morning people, would wake up before everyone else and drink coffee at the island or in the sunroom or sometimes on the deck outside. She came home to this house after a double mastectomy, and my brother and I walked her through recovery as best we could, doling out pain meds and retreating to the basement to eat chips and watch Parenthood while she slept. It was the hardest two weeks of my life and yet I look back on it with nothing but gratitude.

This was the house where Rocky lived, and after he died I came home for Christmas and felt his absence so profoundly that I cried big, fat, devastated tears before I could even set my bags down. I was sitting in the kitchen when my friend Andy called to tell me that our friend Zach had unexpectedly passed away. Everything happened here.

So when my parents split up, I felt mostly fine. But when I swept the bare floor of the living room that used to echo with laughter instead of emptiness, I didn't feel fine anymore.

I know we'll always have the memories, and I know even more confidently that we'll make new ones. I have two boxes and a wedding dress to remind me of that.

But I'll miss the house.

I guess I was 26 years old when my parents split up; or maybe I was 25. When I say it that way, it makes it sound like it happened so long ago, even though it was just at some point in the past twelve to twenty-four months. Either way, it happened slowly and then all at once, like most things in life.

The past year or two have been dizzying with changes in my family, and I haven't told you guys about it until now, which has made me feel a bit inauthentic. Not because I feel like I always owe the Internet an explanation of what's going on in my life, but because there are so many things I've wanted to say--to express--and I haven't felt comfortable doing so until now.

Rob and I went to the lake this weekend and so many different feelings struck me from strange angles: happiness, nostalgia, anger, sadness. The morning air was brisk and billowy fog rolled over the surface of the cold water as it always does this time of year, and I sipped my coffee and thought about how all of this used to feel; marveling in the fact that at times, it still feels the same. It's a bouquet of emotions--some with luscious petals, fragrant and full of hope; others dried up, the blossoms falling apart one at a time. 

I'm an adult. I don't need my parents to be together and to be really frank, I also don't want them to be together. But none of this was easy, the way I thought it might be a year or two ago when I thought well, we aren't kids any more so what's the difference? You grow up and you realize that your parents are just people like you, and you want them to be happy. First I felt lost. Then I was mad. Now I'm okay.

The weirdest thing was the very ironic pride I felt whenever someone would mention (usually in a Facebook post with old wedding photos) the strength of their parents' marriage. It's always the same: Happy anniversary to my wonderful parents, who are celebrating [insert number here] years of marriage! Thank you for showing me and [insert sibling or spouse's name here] what a successful marriage looks like. 

At first I took this really personally, like Rob and I were going to miss out on something because we didn't have their positive influence in our lives. But that's just ridiculous. My parents have still taught me more about marriage than they could ever know, and for that I am thankful. Because whether it's cute and heartwarming or really incredibly sad, you can learn a lot from the people in your life, whether they've decided to stay married or not.

That's where I am now--letting things be what they are, and trying to make the most out of it. And no longer hiding this thing that's been on my heart for quite some time.

When I planned this time away, I thought for sure that I would be writing and blogging and getting tons of work done, but the truth is that so far I've spent a lot of time watching my mother sleep.

You always suspect that one day you might have to take care of your parents, but the truth is that my Paleo-eating, heavy weight-lifting, always-cooking, high-speed laundry-folding, CrossFitter of a mom has always seemed pretty unstoppable. But a double mastectomy will slow down even the most heroic of women.

The truth is that even at their most difficult and painful, things are going well. Her surgery went smoothly and both surgeons were happy with everything. I hope I never forget the way it felt to get good news in that waiting room on Wednesday.

So I'll be here, maybe not blogging so much, but distributing pain meds, heating up food that our neighbors and friends were kind enough to make for us, and cruising through Parenthood in between naps (I can't think of a better show to binge-watch at a time like this). 

I can't even begin to thank you all for your thoughts, prayers, and well-wishes this week. This community is an amazing one and I'm so happy to be a part of it.