Moving Memories: Reflecting on Transitions and Renewal

Today, as I sift through this text, it feels like unpacking an old box from a life long past. Memories spill out—cardboard boxes bursting with shoes, clothes, books, pots, and countless video games, CDs, and DVDs I hardly recall using. They were always there, carried faithfully from one home to the next, gathering dust as if they too were waiting for a final resting place. The sheer weight of it all astonishes me—not just the objects, but the stories stitched into them, the moments they silently bore witness to. A collection of mugs teeters on the edge of one box, a threadbare sheet lies folded neatly, yellowed with age, its edges tenderly stitched by my beloved aunt Laura. Every thread feels like a whisper from her hands, a reminder of the irreplaceable charm of things made with love.

It’s strange, how things accumulate, yet harder still is the act of letting them go. They anchor us to the past, even as life urges us to keep moving.

I think about the many moves I’ve had—interstate ones behind a loaded truck, our faithful dog lying in the backseat, his presence always grounding us in the chaos. Or the smaller, local moves, where friends and family lent their laughter and strength to carry boxes up flights of stairs. And then there were the international ones, where our whole lives were reduced to a single suitcase, a backpack, and a plane ticket to somewhere new. Bill’s kennel always came too—our Golden Retriever/Shar-Pei mix, a furry adventurer who has racked up more air miles than most people I know. Each move brought the same question: would it be an all-out migration of furniture, or just a few bags and a dream?

Either way, each move was never just a matter of logistics. It was a marker of transformation, a quiet shedding of who we were and a step toward who we might become.

Sometimes, out of curiosity—or perhaps nostalgia—I list the streets where I’ve lived: Dr. Olavo Egidio Street, Collings Avenue, Dr. Jose de Queiroz Aranha, Solange Silva, Taquara Branca, Fernandes Sampaio, Seeburg Strasse, Foynes Avenue, Voluntários da Pátria, Hornby St, Mountain Road, Evergreen Drive, and more. São Paulo, Washington DC, Silver Spring, Bethesda, Curitiba, Orlando, Windermere, Montreal, Vancouver, Moncton, Luzern—each place with its own postal codes, each street a part of a tapestry I never intended to weave. At Fernandes Sampaio, there was always a strange homeless who, for some reason, attacked my son Luccas after school. At Seeburg Strasse, there was the quiet elegance of walking Tina, a very special Labrador lady, through the cobbled streets.

The refrain that follows every move is predictable: “Another move? Madness! What about all the things you’ve gathered?” But it was never about the things, was it? Not really. It was about the lives we built between the cracks of packing tape, the experiences we carried in our hearts even when we left the rest behind. Possessions are transient; the memories, the people, the places—they’re what truly linger.

I’ve watched my children grow in the space between these transitions. I’ve seen them stumble over new languages, navigate unfamiliar streets, forge friendships in cultures that initially felt foreign but soon became home. They have blossomed in ways I never could have predicted, finding their footing in the ever-shifting ground beneath them. And perhaps, in watching them, I’ve learned to do the same.

At fifteen, the future felt infinite, sprawling like an open road lined with possibilities. But at nearly fifty-five, that road feels shorter, the horizon closer. The expectations of youth have loosened their grip, and I’ve released the need to constantly reinvent myself. I’ve come to realize that life isn’t about striving to be someone new, but rather, allowing myself to fully inhabit who I already am.

This isn’t stagnation—it’s a kind of freedom. It’s knowing when to embrace change and when to sit still, when to hold on and when to let go. It’s about living with intention, not urgency, and seeking growth not for its own sake, but for the ways it can enrich the life I already have.

And yet, the urge to move, to begin again, still stirs within me. Perhaps that’s the paradox of a life in motion: the more we try to stay grounded, the more we feel the pull of the open road. For now, I’ll embrace the balance, standing firmly in the here and now while leaving room for the next chapter, whatever it may bring.

Life is not a collection of things. It’s a collection of moments—each one a quiet marker of who we were and who we are becoming.

Originally Published on: Nov 26, 2015 as “Mudanças”

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