When Home Changes Hands

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

Today, the house I called home for at least 62 years belongs to someone else. The deed has changed hands, yet the rooms still hold holidays, family gatherings, neighborhood friends, and snow days spent sledding down the street. Somewhere in my memory, the treehouse is still waiting in the backyard, and Mom is still inside making space for us.

Grief comes in pieces, and sometimes one of those pieces is a place. Selling the house feels like another small loss, arriving nearly a year after Mom’s death. The house still stands, but I can no longer return to it as home.

Some pieces came with me to Tampa, including Mom’s porch rocker and my grandfather’s mantel clock. The rest must live in memory now. “When Home Changes Hands” is about letting go of a place that helped form me and hoping the next family fills it with the same warmth, safety, and love that Mom gave us.

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Grief in Pieces

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

Grief often comes in pieces. It’s not only the heavy silence of a funeral or the first night alone. It returns later, quietly, when you reach for the phone to call your mother and remember she is gone. It returns when you read something that your best friend would have laughed at, and for a moment you think, “I can’t wait to tell him,” before the memory settles in.

The Stoics knew this ache. They did not command us to shoulder through grief without feeling. They taught instead that grief itself proves the depth of our love, and that while it must be acknowledged, it must not hold us captive. When paired with the framework of the five stages of grief and the echoes of Christian and Eastern wisdom, Stoic practice helps us carry loss with dignity and live more fully in the time we are given.

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Friendship and Impermanence

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

Friendships are among life’s most unpredictable gifts. Some arrive for only a brief season, while others feel like they’ll last forever. Yet nothing is promised. A letter from an old college friend recently reminded me of this truth with painful clarity: he chose silence, not because of anger, but because life had drained him of the energy to stay connected. His message closed the door on our relationship, and with it came both relief and grief. Relief that I had not harmed the friendship, grief that its time had ended.
The Stoics teach us that everything we hold dear is on loan from fortune and will one day be reclaimed. That includes the people we love and the friendships that sustain us. Loss, they say, is not theft but the return of what was never fully ours. To see relationships this way doesn’t erase sorrow, but it reshapes it. Gratitude can take the place of clinging, and memory can remain as a reminder of both the gift and the impermanence of friendship.

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