It’s been exactly one week since our house was packed up.

Since then, we’ve been living in the in-between — between states, between rooms filled with boxes, between who we were in Tennessee and who we’re becoming in Pittsburgh.

We arrived Saturday. The moving truck arrived Monday. And today — Wednesday — I finally found my laptop and a charger. I’m writing this from a coffee shop down the street, the first place I’ve sat still long enough to think: Okay. I made it. I’m here.

But that realization didn’t come easily. Yesterday nearly swallowed me whole.

We don’t have blinds yet in the new bedroom, so the streetlight outside our window floods in like a spotlight. I tried stacking moving boxes in the windowsill to block it — a classic move born of exhaustion and wishful thinking. Around 2 a.m., they came crashing down.

So the day began in the dark, and too early.

Kelly was trying to ward off a migraine. She’d signed up for a yoga class and needed to take care of herself. No problem, I thought. I’ll walk the dogs.

That’s when Olive greeted us with her first “gift” — a generous helping of powdered sugar spread across the living room. She’d found a bag during the night and must’ve thought she was helping us unpack. Thanks, Olive. Very sweet of you.

After cleaning up, I fed the dogs — still can’t find scissors to open the dog food, so I got creative — and then leashed them up for a walk. Not long into it, Olive had explosive diarrhea. We turned around immediately.

Back at the house, Kelly had left for yoga. I stepped inside to find water pouring from beneath the dishwasher.

While I was cleaning that up, I heard it — a terrible, unmistakable sound from the other room. Vomit. Olive again. And again. And again.

I panicked. The backyard — where I might’ve put her to recover — was already torn up for a concrete project. One that was supposed to be done before we moved in but, naturally, started on our move-in day.

There were no paper towels. No clean surfaces. No ice from the ice maker. No scissors. Nothing where it should be.

And everything inside me was rising — the heat in my face, the tightness in my chest, my brain racing with urgency. I was teetering.

But then, I noticed it.

That I was noticing it.

That I hadn’t gone under yet.

When Kelly returned from yoga, I didn’t pretend I had it all under control. I didn’t push through. I told her: “I’m overwhelmed. I’m blown.”

And she didn’t try to fix it. She didn’t panic.
She wrapped me in a hug, gave me a kiss, and gently showed me the door — in the most loving way.
“Go,” she said. “Go walk to the coffee shop.”

At the coffee shop, my laptop was dead. I had brought the wrong charger.

Of course I had.

So I stopped. I sat. I sipped my coffee.

And I called my mom.

We talked, and slowly, my breath returned. The heat in my face cooled. My shoulders softened. The urgency evaporated. Nothing had really changed — Olive was still sick, boxes still everywhere — but something inside me let go.

I felt space open up again. I felt myself again.

But maybe the real moment of magic had come earlier.

While I was cleaning up Olive’s vomit, trying not to lose it, Leo stood beside me holding the trash bag open.
We were both gagging. Loudly. Dramatically. Laughing while gagging. Turning something gross into something ridiculous.

That, right there — was light.

We didn’t spin into anger. We didn’t blame. We were just two people, trying our best, making puke noises and somehow… laughing together.

It was absurd.
It was connection.
It was joy.

Here’s what I want to remember:

Joy doesn’t only live in tidy houses or well-lit yoga rooms.
Sometimes, joy shows up covered in powdered sugar or hiding in the space between gagging and laughter.
Sometimes joy is the moment you say “I need help” — and no one flinches.

This move has been messy, inconvenient, and overwhelming. But I didn’t lose myself inside it. I kept the light on.

And that’s no small thing.

So yes — shoutout to Motel 6.
We’ll leave the light on for you.

Even when there’s vomit on the rug. Especially then.