Can you grieve for a place? A place that still exists, but no longer is 'yours'?
This is a story about grief — not the kind that comes from losing a person, but the kind that comes from losing a place you love. It might seem unusual, but grief isn’t always tied to people. Sometimes, it’s tied to the spaces that shaped us, the corners of the world where we felt safe, where we belonged.
I know I’m fortunate. At 38, this is the deepest grief I’ve known. I don’t hear many people talk about mourning a place, but surely, I can’t be the only one. Therefore, this story deserves to be told. Because as I finished writing this, I realised — a place is never just a place. It holds experiences, memories, and emotions, and sometimes, we spend our lives searching for what it once gave us, without ever quite finding it again.
Just as joy is real and valid (imagine telling someone not to “overreact” when they’re ecstatic over a perfect piece of fruit—we never would), grief is just as legitimate. I say this because once, a friend told me I was overreacting. As if emotions could be measured. As if grief were a competition. But we don’t need permission to grieve. If something mattered to us, then so does its loss.
So, here’s my story.
Returning to the house
For a while, I felt the need to leave the city. The other day I bumped into a concept of affordable holiday houses in nature and booked a room. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I just knew I needed a break. Somehow, I found an affordable room in a place I used to bike past as a kid a hundred times and booked it. I knew the house was near that area, but I hadn’t really thought about it. Even upon arriving, I didn’t think about whether it would be a good idea to visit. I was primarily focussed on enjoying the gorgeous, peaceful surroundings. I'd get out of bed at sunrise and take in the serenity and beauty of the winterly landscapes. Morning dew hung like a fairytale scene over the heath, and the morning frost coloured everything in a layer of white (most pictures int his story were taking around that time). The remainder of the day, I biked around and enjoyed food in the sun. Then, at some point, as I finished my cappuccino on a terrace, I felt a sudden urge — “I’m heading there” — and off I went.
I had barely come near the house when emotions flooded over me. At least a kilometer away, as soon as I entered that beautiful sand path past the church, which I already admired so much as a kid, I started bawling. Full-on tears, including deep sobs. It was as if a lid had been lifted, and a flood of long-hidden grief surfaced. I couldn’t stop. I don’t even know what I was feeling in that moment, although there was definitely a feeling of homecoming in there as well. Without much thought, I found my way to the house.
Nothing had changed in all these 37 years that I had been visiting this place. The horses were still there (although probably a new generation), the same gorgeous trees, the remarkable sand paths, the quietness interrupted only by the sound of birds. It still feels like pure heaven.
Homecoming
As soon as I entered the narrow street leading to the house, all the pleasant memories of my childhood resurfaced. I felt as if I were coming back home. Back to my roots. Which is funny because I’m not even sure what roots are. Having lived abroad for 18 years — 8 of those before the age of 12 — where my roots truly are has always been questionable. Sure, I feel connected to the Netherlands, but don’t ask me where about in Holland I’m from. But now that I was here, this felt like a place I had roots. It was the only place that was consistently in my life since I was born. All other places came and went. It was also the only place that felt like home, a place that represented how I would have liked to live as a kid if I could have chosen. Having been uprooted many times, this place was a safe haven. It is also strongly connected to my grandmother, with whom I have a great bond — she is still present at 95 years of age!
Carefree childhood memories
I remember how much I loved lying in the small room in the back with the tilted roof and red wool curtains, and how the forest doves woke me up with that distinctive sound. I remember the excitement of hearing my grandma already in the kitchen preparing breakfast. How I would get up, walk to the big windows to look at the gorgeous landscapes, occasionally seeing a family of deer. It was always pleasantly warm in there. Tea would already be ready, served with lots of milk and sugar. A true delight. And I remember the excited greeting from my grandmother, who I almost always saw smiling. She wore these long red pyjama dresses, and it was all part of this feeling of coziness and security. In winter, they would light a fire, and I would sit in front of it on the carpet, mesmerised by the flames and feeling fuzzy from the warmth.
Other times, we would stay with my family in a house a few doors away. As soon as I’d wake up, I biked over to my grandmother’s to drink tea there. My grandma and I would sing or talk in made-up languages as we did the dishes. My grandma was a great storyteller. She would lie between my brother and me in bed and tell us exciting adventures of beetles and beavers on an adventure in the forest. My oma would also regularly cut little pieces of cheese (probably not healthy, but anyway), and I got to lay them outside in the bird feeder. I had the biggest joy watching the feeding frenzy. I ran around barefoot in the garden, played on the swing for hours, baked cakes of sand, and hid in the bushes in my brother’s and my secret pathway. Looking back, those were the most magical and carefree days of my life.
Losing the house
It was 2014 when I woke up to a message I wasn’t prepared for. I was living in Berlin at the time, and my mom sent me a text: “The house is sold.” My throat tightened, and I felt a sharp pain in my chest. What? My beloved house? Sold? Why? I immediately called my mom, bombarding her with questions, tears streaming down my face. When my parents saw how deeply attached I was to the house, they tried to find a way to keep it. But the sale had already progressed too far, and there wasn’t much they could do. My grandpa, who was ill and nearing the end of his life, didn’t want to leave my grandma to handle the burden of selling the house, so he took matters into his own hands.
A longing that remains
Here I am again, ten years later, still crying as deeply as the day I heard the house was sold. Grief is a peculiar thing. I’m beyond grateful for the place this house had in my life, what it brought me, and the fact that it gave me something to long for, to dream about. A place that showed me, amidst all the turbulence of my childhood and the frequent feelings of not belonging, what a safe haven actually feels like. I’m not sure whether the universe has other plans for me, but my dream is to buy that house back one day. If you have ever experienced something similar, you may understand.
As I rang the doorbell, I stood there, trying to wipe away my tears and appear collected, but the tears just kept flowing. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or whether it would be weird for the new owners to see a stranger at their door, visibly upset, telling them about the significance of this house. Maybe they would understand, feel compassion, and offer me to stay there some time? I saw a cat in the garden—maybe it was theirs, and I could take care of it sometime? As all these hopes and wishes crossed my mind, I stood in silence at the door. No answer. I guess not today, maybe not in this way.
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