Mucho
The movers used one word to describe our belongings. By the time we left, I realized they were talking about the wrong thing.
By the time you’re reading this, we’ll already be somewhere between Mérida and Pennsylvania.
I’m writing these words just a couple of hours before we climb into a van, hitch up a trailer, and begin a five-day drive north. I honestly wasn’t sure I’d have enough time—or enough energy—to write one last story before we left.
But after everything that happened over the past 48 hours, this one felt like it needed to be written.
By the time the movers arrived, our house had become strangely peaceful.
The artwork was gone.
The shelves were bare.
The echoes had returned.
For a brief moment, before the last boxes came downstairs, I looked around and remembered why we had fallen in love with this house two and a half years ago.
Then the movers walked in.
Yunki stood in the doorway as they looked around.
Boxes.
Plastic totes.
Furniture.
Bicycles.
The trailer.
The van.
One of the movers smiled and simply said,
“Mucho.”
He wasn't judging us. He was simply making an observation.
And honestly...
He wasn’t wrong.
What struck me wasn’t that we owned a lot.
It was that this wasn’t even everything we had ever owned.
This was after years of letting go.
We had already sold furniture when we left Maryland.
We donated belongings before moving to England.
We left possessions behind when we moved from Qatar to Mexico.
Over the past few weeks we had donated, sold, and given away appliances, furniture, kitchenware, shelving, bikes, and countless other things to friends, neighbors, charities, and the wonderful couple who will soon call this house home.
This was our edited collection.
Our “lighter” version.
Yet somehow...
It still felt like mucho.
By this point, I was physically and emotionally exhausted.
No joke.
At one point I honestly wondered what made us think two people in their mid-60s could pack an entire house by ourselves.
Our bodies reminded us they weren’t twenty anymore.
Yunki didn’t even hurt himself lifting a box. He tripped over a bag in our hotel room and injured his back.
We lived on takeout.
We accidentally climbed into our friends’ Uber instead of ours.
Every day seemed to bring another ridiculous story.
Even the movers looked at everything we owned and simply laughed, "Mucho."
Somewhere between wrapping dishes, labeling boxes, and wondering whether everything would fit, I found myself laughing.
Because sometimes laughing is easier than crying.
As the van slowly filled, I felt every emotion imaginable.
Relief.
Doubt.
Embarrassment.
Gratitude.
And guilt.
I kept asking myself questions I hadn’t expected.
Did we make a mistake bringing all of this?
Will it even fit in our apartment in Pennsylvania?
Why have we carried some of these things across continents?
I found myself envying people who seem to travel through life with one suitcase and a backpack.
Not because I want to own nothing.
But because I suddenly understood how light they must feel.
Then another thought hit me.
This wasn’t even all of our stuff.
This was what remained after years of culling.
How was that possible?
Maybe we don't realize how easily possessions accumulate.
One drawer.
One box.
One “just in case.”
Until one day you find yourself looking at a van and trailer wondering how your life became measured in cubic feet.
I don’t want my next chapter to feel like this.
When we settle into Pennsylvania, I already know another round of letting go awaits us.
Not because we have to.
Because I want to live lighter.
Standing outside our house for one last time felt surreal.
This house welcomed us when we arrived in Mexico full of excitement, uncertainty, and hope.
It sheltered us through hurricanes.
It became my classroom while mentoring university students.
Within these walls we celebrated birthdays, welcomed friends, survived hurricanes, learned Spanish, mentored students, laughed, dreamed, and occasionally wondered what on earth we'd gotten ourselves into.
It was never just a house.
It was home.
We waved.
Not because anyone was watching.
But because somehow it didn’t feel right to leave without saying goodbye.
Before leaving town, we met our dear neighbor Faby for one last breakfast.
Goodbyes don’t always happen in dramatic moments.
Sometimes they happen over coffee and eggs with someone who started out as your neighbor and became a treasured friend.
Those are often the hardest goodbyes.
There was one more goodbye we hadn’t really thought about.
Fluffie needed one last visit to the veterinarian.
Not because she was sick.
Because she needed official permission to leave Mexico.
Watching her patiently wait while we collected her border crossing paperwork made me smile.
She had no idea what any of it meant.
Like every other move she's made with us, Fluffie never questioned where we were going. She simply trusted us enough to follow.
A few official documents.
Some signatures.
A couple of stamps.
For us, they were another item on the moving checklist.
For Fluffie...
They were her passport to another adventure.
As if we weren’t emotional enough already, we picked Fluffie up after her final grooming appointment.
The team handed us this little sketch.
Five handwritten words.
“We Love You Fluffie.”
That was the moment I completely lost it.
After spending days wondering whether we’d carried too many possessions across too many countries, this little drawing reminded me what was actually worth bringing home.
Not the boxes.
The people.
Before we left, we met Jen and Tom, who will soon be living in our house. They’re not new to Mérida. They’ve already built a life here over the past three years and are simply moving to a different neighborhood.
As we handed over a few final details about the house, I realized something.
Houses don’t really belong to us.
We borrow them for a season.
They become the backdrop for birthdays, ordinary Tuesdays, friendships, dreams, setbacks, and fresh starts.
Then, one day, they become someone else’s backdrop.
I do know this.
The movers looked at our belongings and said,
“Mucho.”
They were talking about the boxes.
I left Mexico realizing that the greatest things we accumulated here were never the ones packed inside them.
Mucho friendship.
Mucho kindness.
Mucho laughter.
Mucho encouragement.
Mucho memories.
And a little hand-drawn picture of a dog that somehow says more about our life in Mexico than any moving truck ever could.
Maybe this move isn’t teaching me how to pack.
Maybe it’s teaching me how to let go.
Because in the end, the lightest things we carry are often the ones that matter most.
Hello Joanne, Yunki and Fluffy! I sure hope that you are mucho enjoying your trip to your new home after leaving a mucho wonderful home and period of your live which was mucho full of experiences! Un gran abrazo and you have in Merida mucho cariño!
Joanne & Yunki & Fluffie have a safe trip back home to your new home !
We truly will miss you ❤️❤️❤️ in Mérida however we truly hope seeing you again somewhere in one of the world’s corners ;)