Grateful for the Shelter
A Poem about moving on, grief, and looking towards the future
Grateful for the Shelter
These walls have held a thousand days,
of childhood mess and growing pains,
of dinners cooked and laundry piled,
of bedtime stories, of tears, and smiles.
They watched us build a life somehow,
so different from the one here now.
A marriage lived, a family grown,
a place we simply called our home.
But years move on, as years will do,
and life reshapes what we once knew.
The children grew, the seasons changed,
and much like life, nothing ever stays the same.
Somehow, after all these years,
through different roads and different tears,
I found myself once again back here
These walls hold roots I’ve never known,
the closest place I’ve had to home.
Through years of change, through joy and pain,
they opened up their doors again.
Now another season calls,
beyond these rooms, beyond these walls.
I feel the sunlight somewhere near,
and still, the leaving brings a tear.
Because moving forward doesn’t mean
I cannot grieve for what has been.
I can miss the life that filled these rooms
and still make space for something new.
I can mourn the chapters at their end
and cherish love that changed to friend.
Some things aren’t lost when they transform
they simply learn a different form.
So when the day comes I must leave,
I’ll let myself look back and grieve.
Then turn my face toward morning light,
and trust there are more days to write.
I’ll carry laughter through the door,
the little feet that crossed these floors,
the love, the loss, the life we knew
and leave some room for what’s still new.
For grief can walk beside our hope,
and both can help us learn to grow.
I don’t have to choose one or the other
I can seek the light while missing this shelter.
Wherever this next chapter goes,
I’ll honor every life this home has known.
I’ll grieve, I’ll hope, I’ll face the weather,
and always be grateful for the shelter.
Behind the Poem — Grateful for the Shelter
A few years ago, I hurt my back, and so much of my life changed after that. I stopped working for a while, lost a lot of my independence, and eventually lost the home I had built after my divorce. Since then, I’ve gotten my back taken care of. I’m stronger. I’m working again. I’m rebuilding pieces of myself that I thought, for a while, might be gone for good.
Life hasn’t stopped moving while I’ve been rebuilding. My oldest daughter is about to have her first baby. My 19-year-old son is building his own life and will probably move out within the next year or two. My youngest is growing up. The years of having a house overflowing with children are slowly becoming something I look back on instead of something I’m living in.
Recently, I applied for housing assistance again and was denied. It broke my heart, but not only because I was rejected. It brought me face-to-face with how deeply I am still grieving the home I lost.
I miss having a house filled with kids running up and down the stairs. I miss the angsty teenagers and the toddler tears. I miss driving my kids to school. I miss having an art studio where I could make things and leave a project sitting out because the space belonged to me. I miss the noise, the mess, the routines, and even some of the chaos I probably would have given anything to escape for five quiet minutes back then.
I know I can have a home of my own again someday. I believe that. Maybe someday I’ll even have another art studio. The difficult part is knowing that even if I got the perfect house tomorrow, I could never recreate the life that once filled it. My children aren’t little anymore.
Sometimes we think we are grieving a place when we are really grieving the version of our lives that existed inside it.
At the same time, I am incredibly grateful for the home I have now. These walls hold more history for me than any other home I’ve ever known. I raised my children here. I was married here. We celebrated holidays, fought, forgave, laughed, cried, grew up and grew apart here. This is the only home where I have ever really had roots. After everything changed and I found myself needing somewhere to land, these same familiar walls welcomed me back.
My ex-husband has been incredibly gracious in sharing his home with me while I rebuilt my life. We have both reached a point where we miss having a space that is completely our own. He deserves that again, and so do I. Moving forward isn’t a rejection of this home or the life we built here. It’s acknowledging that life is changing again.
My children are supposed to grow up. My daughter is supposed to become a mother. My son is supposed to build a life that eventually takes him beyond my front door. My youngest will grow too, no matter how much part of me wishes I could hold onto these years. I am supposed to keep growing alongside them.
That doesn’t mean I have to pretend it doesn’t hurt. I can grieve the house I lost. I can grieve the mother I was when my children were little. I can miss footsteps on the stairs, backpacks by the door, rides to school, teenage attitudes, toddler tears, and a house that sometimes felt far too loud. I can miss a life I wouldn’t necessarily choose to go back and live again.
I can still look for the light ahead.
Maybe someday there will be another home. Maybe someday there will be another art studio. Maybe the footsteps running through that house will belong to grandchildren coming to visit. I don’t know what that life will look like yet, but I know there are still memories I haven’t made, rooms I haven’t filled, and versions of myself I haven’t met.
Grief and hope don’t have to fight for space inside me. I can ache for what is gone while being grateful for what remains. I can appreciate the home that gave my family roots and then caught me again when I needed somewhere to land, while also knowing it isn’t where my story ends.
Life keeps changing. So do our families. So do we.
Maybe moving forward isn’t about leaving the past behind at all. Maybe it’s about carrying the love from those years with us while still turning our faces toward the light ahead.
For now, I can grieve what was, hope for what will be, and remain deeply grateful for the shelter.
Thank you for taking the time to read my words and share a little piece of this journey with me. If you’d like to read more of my poetry, visit the Poetry Portal at Hellbloom Haven, where you’ll also find reflections, healing resources, creative tools, and so much more.
