On April 2nd, after months of dreading, planning, and gnashing of teeth, I headed back to Nashville for my first visit since 2024.
There were things I looked forward to, like visiting my brother, reconnecting with longtime friends, watching my kids sample foods they haven’t had in nearly two years, and speaking English all day every day.
But the part of the trip that loomed—the 10x5 storage unit sucking $140 away from our bank account every month—had to be reckoned with.
About a year ago, I looked at Will, my husband, and said, “I don’t think we’re going to move back. And if we do, it’s going to be a long time from now, so we need to empty the storage unit and bring what we want to Spain.” He agreed with me, but we had to figure out the best time to make the trip, which, as it turned out, was the kids’ spring break.
One Foot In, One Foot Out
I’ve written about the dreaded storage space a few times, most recently here. It was an anchor around my neck, bothering me quite a bit more than it bothered Will. We packed nine checked bags along with four personal items and four carry-on bags when we left in 2024. I decided to leave behind my mom’s retirement clock, artwork we collected on our travels before we had kids, and our family Christmas stockings.
The storage unit represented what we would need to start over if the move-to-Spain scheme failed. We placed my beloved cast iron pans into bubble wrap and boxed it up. My prized Dutch oven? Tucked into another box for later. Well-loved Fiesta dishes in rainbow shades? Another box.
All of my Christmas ornaments—both vintage and new(ish)—sat in their plastic cases alongside the Christmas stockings, my mom’s Santa piggy bank from who knows what year, and preschool and elementary decorations my kids made for me over the years.
Will and I packed up the remnants of our own childhoods: yearbooks, a letterman jacket, a handwriting award.
As storage units go, it wasn’t much. But it was everything we couldn't bear to part with. Yet.
Breaking Open the Boxes
My face fell the first time we rolled open the door to the storage unit after arriving in the U.S. It was packed fuller than I remembered, and I was completely overwhelmed by the task at hand.
Nearly two years later, I wasn’t even sure what we’d find when we opened the storage unit, but I had my heart set on bringing the Christmas stockings back to Spain.
Opening our small fire safe had me in tears on the very first day, seeing my mom’s and grandmother’s wedding bands staring up at me.
At one point, I held up a can opener from a kitchen box and looked at Will and said, “Really, Jen? This was worth storing?”
Another box revealed every report card I’d ever received, which immediately went into the trash. (Thanks, Mama.)
I looked at Will and said, "We were paying to store trash." He laughed.
Eventually, I uncovered the cedar chest—the one I've been debating how to ship to Spain since we moved. It lived in my mom's bedroom as far back as I can remember. Getting it to Spain was proving nearly impossible without a shipping container. I was not prepared to go that far to save it.
Ultimately, I decided to sell it, and I tried not to watch as the new owner rolled it away.
During the first stage of our move, Will became an expert in Facebook Marketplace. I watched dishes, my dining table, bookshelves, cookware, and a beloved coffee mug collection leave.
Surprisingly, it was relatively easy for me to chuck old diaries, notebooks of writing, and most of my childhood keepsakes into the trash. Some of the content was … embarrassing, to say the least.
Closing It Up
Before we arrived in Nashville, I arranged for the unit to be closed out on April 10th, with management telling me we had to be out by 10 p.m. and leave the lock off the door. I knew we’d be done before then, but I wanted every last second since we were flying back to Spain on the 11th.
By the last day, the unit contained only our donation items, which we loaded into our minivan rental. Everything we were keeping was packed into our luggage and safely stowed at the hotel. (We needed six checked bags to get it all home.) I took a photo of the kids in the empty space before dropping by the management office to let them know we were officially moved out.
And that was it. This thing I’d been dreading for two years was suddenly gone. It was such a relief. And it felt final. The move was complete, and we were not moving back to Tennessee.
I simply felt … finished.
I write here about building a life abroad—slowly, imperfectly, and with a lot of trial and error.
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Jen, I loved hearing how you have dealt with all the stuff associated with life and what you all left behind. Thanks for such an honest take!
Feels so good!! 😁😁