My parents have lived in the same familiar house, on the same quiet street, in our hometown for 37 years, and now they’ve decided to move.
As unfathomable as it feels to know they’ll soon be living in a new space, what’s even crazier is the fact that I’m (mostly) OK with it. Maybe it’s the discernment that comes with getting older, or maybe it’s that I recently went through my own move — leaving the house where we brought our babies home and moving to another home a few streets over and admitting that life goes on, even in a new location.
Or maybe it’s seeing my parents so excited and happy about their upcoming transition and the realization that it’s possible to fulfill dreams for yourself whether you’re in your 30s or your 60s.
Whatever the reason, over the holidays I did not cry my way through the task of cleaning out my old bedroom closet like I thought I might. Instead, I enjoyed it. Next door, my brother did the same thing in another closet, and back and forth we went, showing each other relics of years past.
I found my very first diary, which started years of journaling, which paved the way for me to become a writer. Decades-old photos of Mardi Gras parades, slumber parties, high school dances. College textbooks nestled down in a box next to a little blue-flowered tin that held my tiny baby teeth.
My brother found a stack of old letters I wrote to him when he was at camp, making me (and probably him, too) realize our childhood sibling rivalry only went so far, and amongst the usual annoyance that came from the gender difference and a four-year age gap, there was an unshakable bond. We found complete Lego pirate ships, the remnants of a baseball card obsession and a collection of necklaces that all the kids wore back in middle school.
In the room that used to be my dad’s study before it became the grandkids’ room, my brother found gold in the form of photos of my dad as a bare-chested, long-haired, grinning 20-year-old kid. And photos from just a few years later, of he and my mom on their honeymoon in Gatlinburg and them splashing around in a backyard swimming pool.
What we found stuffed into the closets and boxes reminded us that even though we’re entrenched in our current lives, our past selves haven’t been that far away. An even bigger revelation for me was that we actually carry the various versions of ourselves around with us all the time. They’re a part of who we are, having shaped us, carved us and primed us for the lives we’re living now.
Looking back on myself in pictures from the mall photo booth, high school winter formal portraits and the first day of college, I was so thankful that little girl went through all she did to become the “me” I am now — wife, mother, friend, writer — and that hopeful and eager young woman is still with me.
And though my parents are enjoying their life as grandparents, travelers, new hobby discoverers and retirement-enjoyers, deep inside them, there’s still a little bit of those grinning kids with big dreams and their arms raised in happiness.
I’ll admit, it can be a relief to know that as we age, we can choose to shed parts of who we used to be like old skin — parts that were necessary to bring us to where we are, but ones we’d rather not see in photo evidence in a hidden box in the closet.
But at the same time, it’s a comfort to know not all of who we used to be is gone. And no matter where or how we live — in this house or that one, with family or alone, young or old — we don’t go forward alone. The best parts of our previous selves — the hopeful ones, the dreamers, the beginners — can come along with us.
My novels “The Hideaway” and “Hurricane Season” are available wherever books are sold. “Glory Road” releases in March 2019 and is available for preorder. You can reach me by email at Lauren@LaurenKDenton.com, visit my website LaurenKDenton.com or find me onInstagram @LaurenKDentonBooks, Twitter @LaurenKDenton or on Facebook @LaurenKDentonAuthor.
