Since my son was born 8 years ago, we’ve moved house 7 times. There were some quickfire ones in there, but it’s been rare for us to stay in the same place for much more than 18 months.
It sounds like we must have had some spectacularly bad luck – but it’s part of our family life that I actively enjoy. Which is a slightly odd thing to say, because moving house is famously one of those experiences people rank alongside divorce, bereavement and assembling Ikea furniture with missing instructions.
For me, some of the hassle is the appeal.
A move forces a clear-out. Without some unavoidable event looming, it’s far too easy to keep accumulating stuff. You put things in cupboards, then in other cupboards, then in whichever cupboard you’ve mentally designated as “the one I no longer open”.
Moving makes you decide whether something is worth packing, carrying, unpacking, and finding a new home for. A surprising amount of stuff fails that test.
It also gives you a short window where change is easy.
I’ve learnt that if I want to fix something about a new place, I need to do it immediately. Change the lighting. Sort out the cables. Make the awkward bit of the room work before I’ve stopped noticing that it’s awkward.
After a few weeks, everything becomes normal. The visible cable nest becomes “where the cables live”. The annoying light becomes “the light”. The momentum has gone.
A move interrupts that process. For a brief period, the whole place is up for grabs.
Home moves too
The part I find most interesting is how little our children seem to care.
To them, moving is normal. On the day we leave a place, they’ll go off to school without a backwards look. No sentimental pause in the doorway. No meaningful farewell to the bedroom wall.
We once moved out of somewhere with access to a swimming pool. I assumed the loss of a swimming pool might at least register as a minor childhood tragedy. Apparently not. They were already focused on whatever the next place had going for it.
Years ago, someone who lived nomadically told me, “home is where mum and dad are”. At the time, that sounded nice. Now it feels true in a very practical way.
The real attraction
The best part of moving may be knowing that we can.
I’d feel trapped if moving became so much hassle, or so financially painful, that it was off the table. That’s one of the reasons we rent. It gives us the ability to keep asking whether this is still where we want to live, and whether this is still how we want to live.
I like the fresh start. I like the reinvention. I like getting another chance to set things up deliberately before habit takes over.
There’s something deeper in there too. I don’t like feeling trapped by sunk cost. A decision I made years ago shouldn’t get to boss me around forever. A version of myself from the past shouldn’t have permanent veto power over what I do now.
For three years, when we travelled, all our possessions fitted into carry-on bags. I loved that. I liked the feeling that our stuff couldn’t pin us down.
Moving house gives me a smaller version of the same feeling. The possessions get questioned. The room layout gets questioned. The routines get questioned. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, the identity gets questioned too.
It’s a reset ritual with a van booking.