Most people move sometime in their life, and for me this was my third time.

Packing up all of my precious mementos, looking at old pictures, and going through my junk drawer was not an easy thing to do. However, moving can be a time of spring cleaning, a way to get under my bed and find my favorite old shirt, and put myself in a good mood. But more often than not, moving is a stressful, traumatic and overall bad experience. I know these feelings well.

I try to come at a problem with a good attitude, but that doesn’t always work. My mother and I can both be hot-headed, and when she stressed about the move nothing helped – needless to say there were some loud arguments. Not all of them were her fault; I’d say it was pretty even, and I can understand where she was coming from, but I’m a teenager and teenagers are always right. Duh.

Now, unpacking; that’s another story. Packing was easy; I just threw my stuff in a box and hoped that my mom didn’t check it to tell me that I wasn’t “maximizing the space.” But when unpacking, I feel obligated to put things in order as a sort of superstitious way of getting off on the right foot, while also realizing that I, with the amount of stuff I own, could be categorized as a hoarder.

But, after a while things always settle down, and have a way of turning out right. So just like that, moving got easier. With the boxes gone, and the furniture arranged in just the right way to make the house a home, the stress melted away and the general mood lightened.

There are still some knick-knacks that need to find their spot, but now that everything’s done I guess it wasn’t so bad after all.