It’s early December 2011.

I am sitting in my parked car in Sherman Oaks, CA waiting for AAA to arrive so they can jumpstart my battery. “I’ll be super speedy grabbing the rest of my things, so I’ll just pull over and pop the hazard lights on,” I told myself. Back then, I was notorious for being too trusting of my car battery and always let things run for way too long. And this was long. Way too long. Like, “Hold on, I should probably look at this old wedding dress one more time before I roll it into a ball and toss it into the garbage shoot and stoically sift through 45 other keepsakes from the last 20 years” too long.

This was the apartment I shared with my husband from 1998 until this very moment. I moved out a few months prior stating the famous line from Friends,”maybe we should just take a break.”

Now we were taking turns coming by to get our things, and this was the very last time I’d be in that apartment.

Oddly, my energy that day was deliberate and focused. I could’ve brought a friend, but needed to do this alone. No emotion. Only action.

Until…

As I sat and waited in my car, I slowly glanced up at the balcony of the apartment. Though it was light when I arrived, it was now pitch black outside. All the other balconies were lit up with holiday lights…but mine was dark. Suddenly an avalanche of memories flooded through my heartspace. Why did I just toss that photo album? That ticket stub?…my favorite box of ornaments? I was sweating. Heart beating fast, and a huge pit in my stomach.

In the rear-view mirror I can finally see the AAA attendant approaching my car, so this clearly wasn’t the time to get emotional. So I swallowed it all down.

Once my car started, I swiftly pulled away and blasted Don Henley’s,The boys of Summer, as I drove down the 405 freeway, back to the beach safe & sound.

The next day, I told my therapist, George, about my “almost meltdown” in the alley of that old valley apartment.

If you read my last newsletter, you may already be aware of my therapist George. I’m sure his name will come up often, and for sure be in the book I will write someday.

It sounded cool to say I had a “Beverly Hill’s therapist” since that’s where our earlier sessions took place a couple years prior. This was back when I was still married and just feeling “confused” and “out of sorts”, but didn’t realize things went much deeper. A story for another time.

I told him about looking up at the balcony and seeing mine dark, with no one inside. How much it bothered me. How much remorse and shame I felt for blindsighting a person the way I had.

I wasn’t ready to admit this back then, but it was indeed the end of an era. A major life chapter that was having its page turned. Was it way too soon? Well if it was, I wasn’t ready to deal with it.

I told him how I carried on and hurried through my apartment like a stranger. How I felt like I was out of my body….a feeling so difficult to describe. Like a burglar pulling things off shelves left and right so I could drive off in my getaway car that wouldn’t start. And why didn’t it start? Was something trying to slow me down so I could find time to be still and grieve?

“Karen, it may be dark in that apartment unit, but I want you to focus for a moment on the light. What’s the good that’s happening right now?,”George responded.

He also reminded me that it was ok to grieve.

I looked up at him in disbelief. “I don’t deserve a light, George. You must see way too many people from Beverly Hills.”

Fast forward to August of 2025.

I am packing up our basement in Cohasset, MA after living here with my sweet family, (all together, all staying together). Yet something made me flash back to that dark Los Angeles moment. Next store they are having a huge party with live music and lots of people, but here in my basement, it’s quiet. The kids aren’t babies anymore, so they’re at the neighbors playing, not in their crib or with their toys, though I can still hear the laughter, the crying, the mess, the nose-blowing, the carpet stains, me wishing we weren’t so alone…without any family nearby.

This was a different kind of loss. One that is much more bittersweet.

This time, I will not hurry. I’m going to take it all in and let myself feel. Yet oddly, when I inhale the memories, with them comes remnants of California. The parts I blocked myself from feeling 14 years ago.

George always said that when we go through emotionally painful situations, the psyche has a buffer-system in place. This is here for a reason and most likely how people get through tough times, then come out on the other side and say, “Holy shit, did I just go through that?

Except, moving out of Massachusetts to be closer to family isn’t a painful situation. Is it a big move? yes, but one that’s to be celebrated. These years were lonely, especially after 2020. Now we’ll be close to our support system and I feel comforted in that we made the absolute right decision. And most importantly, no lives are being destroyed.

But then it comes. That fear of change. That voice that says there’s something that I hadn’t considered. “Will the kids be ok in their new school?, “Are we going to find the right Dr?”, “Will my colleagues forget about me when I’m gone?” My mom is also in her mid 80’s…. “Will her good health persist for many more years once we’re there?” “What about Willie? Will this move be too much for a 14 year old dog?”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself it’s that I’ve always had trouble closing chapters.
My transition out of high school, leaving my 6 best friends to go to the big city of Boston didn’t really take hold of my spirit until spring semester sophomore year when I met another group of great friends.

Then when I first moved to LA after college, I kept boxes on the ground that I refused to unpack, thinking I’d just be there “temporarily”. Cut to 10 years later and I finally felt at home.

Here in Massachusetts, it was the opposite. I found a wonderful group of mom friends when I first had Tommy, but then we all moved further apart so we didn't see each other as much, then 2020 hit.

And now that I’ve come full circle, complete with a solid partner, a dog and 2 children, I’ve learned some important things. .

Denial is the first stage of grief for a reason.

I’ve learned that it’s ok to buffer, and not feel situations until you're emotionally ready and in a safe space to do so.

So I realize as I stand downstairs in my basement looking at the empty walls that I’m not just grieving MA, I’m grieving every place I’ve ever left. Life’s funny that way.

The other thing I learned is that old wounds will continue to resurrect until they’re finally felt.

Everyone treats the end of chapters differently. Some choose not to accept them, some choose to embrace them, but I think the majority of people feel somewhere in between.

For me, it depends on what chapter it is. Though I will say, the book keeps getting better and better.

Xxo

K