When the Floor Gives Out

We always talk about how moving is hard. But what we don’t always talk about is why it’s hard.

Not the obvious stuff like having to decide what to keep and what to donate. Or having to pack everything you own into boxes while navigating logistical chaos. I’m talking about the deeper impact — the part where safety gets ripped out from under you like a rug, and you’re left flat on your ass wondering what the hell just happened to your sanctuary.

This wasn’t supposed to be our story.

We’ve lived in this apartment for 7.5 years. We weren’t being evicted for nonpayment. We were doing what we were supposed to — paying our bills, communicating, showing up. Yes, we were late sometimes. Yes, we were on a court-ordered stipulation. But we always paid. We were trying. We just needed a few more days. Our landlord didn’t care. She didn’t want to work with us. No empathy. No humanity. Just an unspoken threat hanging in the air.

And at that point? It stopped feeling like a home. It felt like we were no longer safe. No longer wanted. No longer appreciated. And when that happens? You stop trying to prove your worth and you start protecting your peace.

So we took matters into our own hands. We found a new place. We made the call to leave before the rug was yanked out again. Because nothing is more damaging than trying to stay somewhere you’re clearly not wanted.

 

 

The Emotional Fallout No One Prepares You For

 

It doesn’t just wreck your body, it wrecks your spirit. The place you once walked around barefoot in your pajamas, where your pets knew every window ledge, where the smells were familiar, and the mess was yours… it turns into something unfamiliar and sterile as boxes begin to pile up and the walls start to echo.

It rocks your self-worth.

Jay has taken on the full physical burden of this move — hauling boxes, running up and down stairs, loading and unloading the U-Haul like an actual superhero. But emotionally? It’s gutted him. He feels like he failed me. Failed our animals. Failed our life.

And the truth? That couldn’t be further from reality.

For the last 2.5 years, I’ve carried us financially. He made the brave decision to leave a toxic job for his health and healing. I supported him because I believe in his future and his worth. And then my health declined. Suddenly, we were both surviving off one body and a lot of faith.

And he has shown up in every way that counts.

He’s also been a bit more affectionate in the last few days — needing a little extra reassurance because this is hitting him too. This is our first home together. It’s the space where we’ve made every memory for the last seven years, and now we’re having to leave it unexpectedly, not on our own terms. And there’s a small part of him that feels like a piece of his manhood was taken with all of this. Like he failed as a provider, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.

And what I can do — what I am doing — is showing up for him with hugs, with soft reminders that I’m proud of him, that he is doing a good job, and that this isn’t his fault. I’m holding space for him while he holds everything else. That’s what love looks like here, right now, in this chaos.

 

 

The Unexpected Victims: Our Emotional Support Animals

 

This is the part I didn’t expect to break me.

Checkers has had stress-induced diarrhea for two days. Sophie has been extra jumpy. It’s Fourth of July weekend, which adds fuel to the anxiety fire. Luca — our sweet baby (not a pandemic pup — he’s only 15 months old, and we got him 11 months ago) — has been unbearably clingy. And then we realized: he’s scared he’s being left behind.

Because when we got him, he had just watched his first family pack up and move without him.

Today, we took the dogs to the new apartment.

And when Jay let go of Luca’s leash at the stairs, and Luca ran straight into the new place — zoomies and all — I lost it. Like full-on tears. That moment? That was his moment. That was the moment he realized we weren’t leaving him behind. He was coming with us. He was still ours. This was still his family.

And it hit me — maybe this is how my adoptive mom felt when I finally let her in. When I finally believed I was safe and loved and chosen.

I didn’t expect that parallel to slap me in the face like it did. But it did.

 

 

Let’s Not Forget the Cats

 

Poor Moby has been hiding under the bed or in the closet, terrified of every box rustle and footstep. Danny is oblivious chaos (because kittens), and Leon just wants extra cuddles. They don’t understand what’s going on. Their safe space is changing. The windows they used to perch in are disappearing. And all they can do is watch the familiar world shift under their paws.

 

 

The Grief of Goodbye

 

We’re leaving behind the home where we built our life together. The place we brought our pets home to. The place where we celebrated wins, grieved losses, made late-night snacks, argued in the kitchen, laughed till we couldn’t breathe, and made love and plans and life.

We’re leaving Luca’s girlfriend Winnie. (Yes, our dog has a girlfriend.) We’re leaving neighbor dogs and stray cats we’ve worked hard to earn trust with. We’re leaving people — real friendships we’ve built with neighbors who waved, talked, shared life with us.

Every single person we told we were moving? They were genuinely sad. Not just “Oh that sucks” sad — real sad. The “we’re going to miss you” kind of sad. Even the ones who don’t live in our building.

Jay’s made friends with maintenance guys. Our animals love them. They’ve become part of our daily lives. There’s the little convenience store Jay walks to every day where the workers literally call our dogs their grandbabies. That’s not just a store. That’s community.

And now it’ll be a 20-minute drive away instead of a 5-minute walk.

Yeah, we’ll have new conveniences. But what about the ones we already loved? The ones that brought comfort and familiarity?

We’re not just leaving a building. We’re leaving pieces of ourselves.

 

 

And Then… There’s My Body

 

I’m physically sick. My voice is going in and out. I’ve taken emergency rescue salts twice already — actually, more like six times now. I laugh every time I take them because I’m still surprised how fast they work… and how many things they help with. And then I laugh again at the end of the day when I realize I’ve probably consumed 1000+mg of salt just to function, and I’m not even swollen. All I can do is laugh.

My body is wrecked. I can barely pick up a packed box because my back feels like Velcro — like it’s about to rip apart at the seams. My muscles ache like I’ve been beat with a stick, and my body can’t regulate its temperature for shit. I’m sweating one minute, freezing the next. Standing up, sitting down, bending over… it all sends me spinning.

I’m losing my voice. I’m running on fumes. I literally hurt from the tip of my hair strands to the ends of my pinky toes. I think one of my toenails is falling off from the stress. And I’m pretty sure I’m fighting off a UTI from the constant heat, dehydration, and body temp fluctuations.

If I don’t have a chair near me? I can’t do anything. I can’t stand for more than five minutes without getting dizzy or out of breath. It’s not just joint pain — it’s full-body shutdown.

But I’m pushing through. I’m doing what I can, taking breaks, drinking more water in the last three days than I probably have in two weeks (which… yeah, is a problem). I’m trying not to overdo it so I’m not completely dead weight. But that balance is hard — because I feel like dead weight watching Jay do all the heavy lifting while I have to sit down because I got dizzy from packing up the damn medicine cabinet.

But I’m proud of myself. I helped Jay carry our big-ass wooden pantry cupboard down the stairs last night. It was heavy, it hurt, and it sucked — but I did it. And that matters.

 

 

Through It All… Jay

 

Jay has carried this move — literally. I may be handling the emails, phone calls, payments, planning, and paperwork, but he’s been running stairs, hauling boxes, dealing with the heat, loading the truck.

He’s showing up. Hard.

He doesn’t think it’s enough. He thinks he’s failed somehow. But I see what he’s doing. I see the strength. I see the effort. I see the man I fell in love with and the man I’m still falling for now.

And he’s been more affectionate lately — needing more reassurance, more softness, more “you’re doing amazing” moments because this hurts him too. He’s hurting because he didn’t want to leave either. He’s grieving our first home too.

So I’m holding him. Hugging him. Telling him he’s seen and loved and doing so damn good. Helping him carry this in the only way I can — with my words, my touch, my belief in him.

 

 

So Why Share All of This?

 

Because this blog is my safe place. It’s my chaos corner. It’s where I share the truth of what it means to be human — messy, real, and exhausted.

And maybe someone else out there needed to hear this.

That moving is more than moving.

That grief can be layered in bubble wrap and packed in cardboard boxes.

That sometimes love shows up with U-Haul keys and tired arms.

That you’re not the only one crying on your bathroom floor surrounded by half-packed bins and a clingy dog who just needs to know he’s still coming with you.

We’re all just trying to figure it out. And this? This is me figuring it out.

One tear, one box, one story at a time.

XO - Ashley Jo 💋