In Times of Change, Remember You're Only Human

Anne Pellicciotto
18 minutes ago
6 min read

Dear friends. I’ve been silent. You know the kind of silence that means something’s wrong – not the no news is good news kind. The silence that means you’re hiding.

I’ve been hiding, ashamed to admit: this return home – after four and a half years on the nomad road – has been my toughest transition yet.

In my last post (https://www.seechangeconsulting.com/post/homecoming-exploring-a-new-self-in-an-old-place ), I shared three keys to a smooth transition – ways to preserve my newfound gypsy spirit in my old DC realm:

- Be grateful for all I have;

- Choose faith over fear;

- Discover new adventures in this old place.

They sure sounded good on paper. But in real life, all that wisdom’s flown out the big sash windows of my historic Mount Pleasant rowhouse. And it did so, if I’m honest, three weeks back, the moment I stepped across the threshold.

Entering through the back kitchen door, I was hit with the stench of rot and mold. The place was filthy. I felt the soles of my shoes slide across the grimy floor. When I opened the fridge to put away groceries, my adrenaline shot-up. The shelves were caked with condiment goop; the cabinets were covered with crumbs and hair.

Though exhausted from my travel and 10 trips up and down the stairs from the car, I kicked into immediate frantic motion with a bucket and sponge. The dear couple from up the block who had graciously come to help unload, tried to calm me. “Hire a cleaner,” they encouraged. “Otherwise, the house looks in pretty good shape,” said the wife, looking at the bright side.

“You’re right,” I nodded, a little embarrassed. What happened to the yogi equanimity I’d cultivated on my journey? I opened a bottle of bubbly to toast the occasion, hoping to douse the flames of anxiety with effervescence.

Yet, in truth, my triggered state was not about the dirt. My busy-ness would continue for the weeks ahead to obscure the niggling, obvious sense I was not ready, willing or able to name. The secret fear that, psst: I didn’t belong here; that Casa Parque was no longer really my home.

This edifice that had welcomed me across the threshold when I was 33 – that coaxed me into a whopping mortgage – provided me shelter and safety – housed my business and boyfriends –entertained friends and family for almost 30 years – that helped raise me – seemed indifferent to me – and I to it.

And that felt…no, I couldn’t let myself feel a thing. If I had any inkling of this possible truth, then where was home? I had to stuff that question down and get on with my inhabitation. Because that was the plan.

I’d completed my nomad journey – almost five years on the road – and it was time to return. My therapist, in a not-so-rare moment of directness – had said so. “Marina, it’s time to commit to settle.” Neither of those words sat well with me. But it was true: I was tired of packing up and moving on, leaving friends and community behind. And it was true: the renters had given notice, I was weary being a landlord, anyway. And it was true: I loved my house and neighborhood and city. I could treat this homecoming like my next adventure.

Damned be those subliminal messages – I was going to conveniently, painstakingly ignore them. It was time to commit to settle – find peace with my house -- make this place home again.

So…for these first weeks, I’ve been up and down and up and down the stairs of my triple-decker rowhouse a thousand times – on legs that are used to horizontal not vertical living – hauling belongings. I thought I’d divested of 80 percent of the stuff five years ago. Though, turns out, 20 percent of a 30-year life is a lot of stuff – especially when you’re used to living out of a hatchback.

Open another box, crate, closet, another storeroom door – and what faces me? Artifacts of my old life. Stacks and stacks. A big oak trunkful of family memorabilia. Boxes of kitchenware—mixers and mashers and meat tenderizers – Mom’s China – her wedding dress. Bed and table linens. Shoes and clothes that never made the nomad cut. Beautiful things, useful things—so many things!

Exhale. Caroline My Crooked, Blessed Spine is not happy at all. The stress of moving those years ago is exactly what got us into the backbreaking mess – landed us in the emergency room facing the prospect of major surgery. Remember? she cries. We got out, we escaped the surgeon’s scalpel. Though years of painstaking alternative therapies, we healed! But…the pain is back – up around a 7 or 8 out of 10.

Then there's the mind – so intricately connected to the body. It swirls like the wind on this bright and blustery fall day, tripping off that old vicious cycle: stress-->pain-->gripping-->back to stress, and the questions: Will the pain stay? Will it worsen? Are all those years of healing down the toilet?

Which reminds me: the toilet’s leaking in the second-floor bath, along with the tub spigot. The dishwasher’s on the blink. The leaves must be raked before it rains. I’ve got nowhere to sit in this entire house except this on this ball chair, part of my nomad kit, that I balance upon as I struggle, at the desk, to type something – an upbeat update for you, dear readers. My new office chair sits in its box at the entry waiting to be assembled.

Add these bullets to my arm’s length to-do list – the one that will keep me in ignorant blissful busy-ness – just a little longer.

Professional change agent, I coach people in overcoming such change challenges; yoga teacher, I guide others in rooting down to rise UP.

So how could I let myself get so thrown-off?

I gaze down at my bloody bitten cuticles. A helicopter whirs over the roof, rattling the windowpanes in their frames, reminding me of the battle this country is in – and I am back in the epicenter.

Whoosh, howl, whorl: I pause my typing to heed the wind’s call. Outside the window, leaves billow – clouds of auburn and yellow. I smile, exhale a breath, close my eyes. How could I get so thrown-off?

In just that tiny pause – connecting with nature – even through a window – the answer comes. Because I’m human.

My shoulder blades relax down my back. It’s a relief to admit: it’s just too hard on the body to hide from the truth. I am not super-human.

Choosing faith over fear can seem impossible – almost a mockery – in tumultuous times. And these are tumultuous times. Nature goes through its seasonal change like clockwork. But we humans?

Look around the DMV – so many are hit by changes they didn't choose: the DOGE'd and furloughed, those whose benefits and livelihoods hang in the balance, those under daily threat of ICE interception, or struggling to cover the basics as critical programs are cut.

It's all pretty unthinkable – and lots more harrowing than the change I'm going through – a change I’ve chosen – not one thrust upon me – to come off the road, reintegrate into my old lovely life, re-inhabit this big empty house in the middle of the city, and not feel so lonely.

Ahh, loneliness. That’s part of the human experience, too, isn’t it. Acknowledge, don’t turn from it. Feel it – a tiny stab in the chest. Then give yourself the compassion you deserve – place a hand on your heart and say There there, it will be okay. This transition will just take time.

Then get up from the desk – postpone the yard work – and take that gypsy spirit out in the woods to play.