Sitting In Old Wounds


Sitting in Old Wounds

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow I’m helping a friend with an estate sale. Estate sales are something I know like the back of my hand—I’ve been in the industry for over 20 years, and my family has always been heavily involved.

But this time is different. I haven’t worked on one since before Jeffrey left. For 15 years, estate sales weren’t just a job—they were an our thing. Something we shared, something he loved, even though to me it was mostly just work.

Being back in it has stirred up memories I wasn’t ready for. Customers still know me as part of that “us,” and the reminders are everywhere. It makes the air heavy, almost suffocating, because I’m not just battling the physical work of the sale—I’m battling my agoraphobia, my anxiety, and the ache of longing for something that’s gone.

Yesterday was one of the hardest days I’ve had in a long time. Not because of the labor, but because of the emotional weight. Helping my friend matters to me, but I can’t ignore what this has made clear: here in Pocatello, almost every situation I step into is rooted in my past relationship. Everywhere I turn, I’m reminded of the life I lost.

And how do you heal when you’re constantly forced to sit inside the wound? You can’t. A wound doesn’t close when it’s picked open every single day.

Maybe that’s the hardest truth of all—that sometimes the place you’re in makes healing impossible. And maybe the bravest step isn’t learning how to endure it, but finding the courage to move where your heart can finally breathe.

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