“The Day I Moved the Furniture”

—And everything that shifted inside me, too—

I’ve lived in many houses. Perhaps, too many.

Torreón. Argentina. Then back to Torreón. Saltillo. Morelia. Querétaro. Morelia again. Mexico City. Monterrey. Mexico City once more. Moroleón. Los Angeles. Mexico City yet again. And now, Houston, to mention some of them.

And in between all of those cities, one move after another. One suitcase. One borrowed corner of the world. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with someone. Sometimes, half of me wanting to stay, and the other half already halfway out the door.

With Juan Pablo — my partner in life — we’ve moved fourteen times in the last ten years. And if I’m honest, this endless movement didn’t start with him. It started much earlier. After my parents separated, I went to live with my dad. I was about twelve. We left with almost nothing. From that point on, I moved from place to place, often unsure of where my belongings would end up —or what parts of me I was leaving behind in every space I left.

Not long ago, I was talking to Nancy —my lifelong best friend— and we were remembering my parents’ house in Torreón. She used to visit it often. She asked me what happened to everything, the furniture, the books, the art on the walls. And I realized… I don’t know. So much was lost. I wish I had been able to keep those pieces of my family, of my history. But most of it simply vanished.

And yet, it wasn’t until just a few days ago that something truly settled.

After almost four years of living in this house.

After inhabiting it without really feeling it was mine.

After arriving, with dreams that stayed in sealed boxes.

After life shook me once more —through illness, loss, emotional collapse—.

After feeling invisible, displaced, small, broken… even while still breathing.

After eighteen months of chemotherapy that left me without the strength to do almost anything…

One day, without really planning to… I moved the furniture.

And while it may seem small, that gesture echoed deeply. It felt like I was shifting grief along with the couch. Like I was rearranging fear with the bookshelves.

Like I was finally saying: I’m not waiting to be rescued anymore.

I’m not surviving on autopilot.

I’m here. I’ve returned and reloaded once again.

And yes. Today I’m okay.

Not perfect. Not without scars.

But yes, with myself.

With my story. With the broken pieces, I’ve managed to stitch back together. With a body that feels stronger, softer. With eyes that see more clearly. With a heart that finally feels lighter.

I’m also at peace with JP. After so many storms, we’ve learned to listen, to respect, to truly be there for one another. Our marriage has become more conscious, more gentle —and yes, stronger. We walk side by side now. We share the good, the hard, and the everyday.

And Bubu —our beloved dog-son, the furry soul of this family— still reminds us, every single day, of what truly matters.

Because yes: today, this house feels like home.

And so do I.

I’ve allowed my roots to grow.

Deep, steady, powerful roots that rise from within me.

And if life ever calls us to move again, we’ll do so from a different place. Not out of escape, but out of gratitude. With lighter bags, steadier hearts, and the certainty that wherever we go… We’ll know how to build a home again.

Because our home lives within us. 🥰

As always, thank you for your support. Spread the love by sharing 🙌

See y'all on my next post!

Love, Malena 💕🌿