The weight of change

 Change doesn’t always come in thunderclaps.

Sometimes, it arrives as a quiet ache in your spine—like the weight of a box you’ve been carrying too long.

This season of my life is drenched in change.

Packing up a house. Leaving a job. Making room in a caravan. Letting go of the man who never really held me.

And let me tell you—grief weighs more than furniture.

There are moments I feel it pressing on my chest like an unopened suitcase.

But then there are lighter moments too. Fleeting, honest, sacred. Like when I hear my mother laugh while folding linen in the caravan. Or when I realise I don’t miss what I thought I would.

We always talk about letting go. But we forget to name the cost of holding on.

I’m learning that change isn’t just about doing new things—it’s about becoming someone new.

And that takes courage. And quiet. And cups of coffee while your whole world shifts.

I’m not finished changing. I’m not even sure I’ve started properly.

But I know this: the weight I’m putting down makes room for something better to be picked up.

Maybe the weight of change is just the gravity of becoming.

— x Elsabe