My inaugural adult move took me to a dormitory in the oldest building on campus, situated uphill and requiring five flights of stairs. Fortunately, a couple of husky football teammates lent a hand.
Since that first move, I have relocated ten additional times. I have tackled cross‑country treks with a U‑Hauls, relied on friends, hired movers for a one‑day shift, and even moved while eight months pregnant. None of those experiences compared to the ease of my recent move with my ten‑year‑old son, just next door.
It may seem obvious, but moving remains a move and still ranks among life’s most stressful events. The short distance could have bred complacency, yet I was determined to declutter before packing a single box. That preparation, combined with the assistance of fifteen friends—mostly parents and their children—made the process smooth.
We had not planned to move.
When my son and I settled into our rental in October 2020, I viewed it as temporary. I underestimated how long we would actually stay. I am not enthusiastic about moving, and that pandemic‑era, one‑day relocation was stressful enough to deter me from repeating it.
Nevertheless, circumstances aligned perfectly. Our landlord decided to sell the rental, which we had no interest in buying, while our next‑door neighbors were preparing to move. We cherished our neighborhood, which lies roughly a half‑mile as the crow flies from my childhood home and a three‑minute drive from my aging mother.
I consulted my son: how did he feel about purchasing the house next door? He was enthusiastic, matching my excitement. After touring the property together and agreeing it was the right fit, we submitted an offer before the house ever hit the market.
My son contributed an idea.
Now old enough to weigh in, he proposed an old‑fashioned fire‑brigade line, with friends and family forming a chain from one door to the next, passing belongings along. I thought it sounded promising, so I created an Evite and sent it out.
On a mild winter weekend in January, we gathered our smaller items in the kitchen nook by the door. About fifteen friends and family members arrived to shuttle those belongings to the entryway of our new home. Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the house, my niece and nephew handled heavier items, moving them door to door.
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All the collected items were transferred in thirty minutes, yet some tasks remained. My girlfriends declared, “You have us here, put us to work.” They emptied the cabinets in our old kitchen and relocated my clothes from closet to closet. My cousin unpacked the new dishes and glassware into the new dishwasher, and a friend cleared out my junk drawer—a habit I highly recommend.
The following day, professional movers transported the heavier pieces—beds, bookcases, desks, and couches—in under two hours, which helped keep costs low.
The help of so many others made our move less stressful.
After the previous high‑stress experiences, I gave myself a month to settle in next door, which proved ample. The bulk of our possessions moved that weekend, while smaller items like artwork and trinkets followed over the course of the month once I knew where everything belonged. I was grateful for that extra time.
A few weeks after the move, I compared notes with a friend in New York City who also bought a new place and moved around the same time. I remarked that “next time I’d do it this way.” She reminded me that there won’t be a next time—owning means I won’t need to move again anytime soon.