The House That Held Us
Diana Moy Lee
My story isn’t about losing a person. It’s about losing a place…
I think of grief as a feeling of loss in your life.
And for a long time, I didn’t realize I was allowed to call this grief.
I had to move suddenly from a home that held so much of my family’s life. It was the place where love was poured in quietly over time — where routines formed, where milestones happened, where memories lived in the walls. Even though I didn’t move far, and even though many things stayed the same, I felt deeply shaken.
What surprised me most was how strong the grief was. I didn’t expect it.
There was no time to prepare, no gradual letting go.
Just reacting, making decisions, keeping things moving.
Unlike other moves I’ve experienced, this one didn’t come with closure.
There was no real chance to say goodbye.
I didn’t realize how much value I had placed on that space until it wasn’t mine anymore.
At the time, I felt like I needed to push through. I told myself I should be grateful. I was still responsible for my family, for their emotions, for making sure they felt safe — which didn’t leave much room to feel my own. The weight of holding everything together made it hard to process what I was losing, and it strained my relationships in ways I didn’t expect.
Before Rooster and Hen, I never would have labeled this experience as grief.
I thought grief had to look a certain way. I thought I just needed to be strong.
During a grief training for helpers, I heard something that changed everything: children need permission to feel grief on their own time. And suddenly I realized — so do adults. So do helpers. So did I.
That moment gave me permission to name what I was feeling, instead of minimizing it.
Through this work, I learned that grief doesn’t need to be justified to be real. It just needs space.
In becoming a better helper, I found space to heal myself.
And that has changed how I show up — not just for my family, but for others walking through unexpected loss.
♥️
After sharing this story, I paused to notice where my heart is now.
The Heart I Chose
I chose a purple heart made out of Play-Doh.
Depending on the day, my heart changes shape.
Some days it feels full and steady — solid with love and gratitude for where we are now. Other days, memories of our old house soften it. A small hole might appear. An edge can flatten. A few quiet dents press in where something once lived.
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