I’m certainly moved now. Completely and fully. But there were several times where I was “moved” but not really.

Was I moved when the last box was placed in the middle of my living room? Or was it when I cleaned the last room at the previous place and handed over the keys? Perhaps when I put the last box into the car and took it to the recycling center? Or was it when I took advantage of a key feature of my house—the garage, when I changed the oil in the little green car and put her away for the winter.

In truth, it was all of these steps and none of them. I know when I felt moved. It was the day that I went back to an empty apartment to clean and just wanted to go home. Home, where all my stuff is. Where my life is. That was the moment I realized I’ve moved.

It’s immensely satisfying and takes a lot of the sting out of that looming mortgage payment. The realtors didn’t appeal to my heart. They appealed to the investment of the building. A house isn’t an investment. It’s a home. It’s a place to live. Not merely survive, but live. That’s why I bought it, the honest truth is that I had moved before I had packed a single box.