The Non-Negotiables
On reclaiming home — and the objects that carry us forward
I re-read my Tender Warrior from March recently. The one about feeling at home in your own life while caregiving.
What struck me, reading it again, was how clearly I remembered that feeling — the one most caregivers know without having a name for it. The absence of an anchor. Somewhere that was uniquely, unambiguously mine.
With that in mind, I made a decision.
I resolved to take my home back.
For years, our house had been a place of love and life — full of projects and laughter and the particular warmth of two people building something together. Then it evolved into a caregiving space. And then, when Lee moved into memory care, it became something else entirely: a place of constant reminders of a life I no longer lived and that Lee no longer occupied either.
Every room held an echo. Every corner had a before.
So I decided to prep the house to sell and move to a new space that was entirely my own. I wasn’t giving up on caring for Lee — that journey still had some miles to go. But I was reclaiming a place within me that had gone missing. Quietly, without announcement, I had stopped belonging to myself. And this was the first step back.
The lesson I learned then, and remind myself of still, remains the same:
Loving your spouse doesn’t require abandoning your need to feel at home in your own life.
What I Brought With Me
When you move from a shared life into a space that is yours alone, you make hundreds of small decisions. What stays. What goes. What you cannot leave behind.
I created a pile I eventually called the non-negotiables.
These were the inanimate objects that held memories precious enough to travel with me. Not everything — not even most things. But the pieces that, when I looked at them or handled them, brought me somewhere real. Somewhere that felt like me.
Every piece of art in our home, we had selected together. Each one had a story — a small town art festival, a gallery we wandered into, a piece we debated and then agreed on and then couldn’t imagine living without. His workshop tools reminded me of our renovation projects — and there were a few, some more successful than others. I selected a handful to bring with me. And of course the photos: our wedding, our daily life, our trips and adventures and the faces of the people we loved.
These objects didn’t take away the grief. A new place to call home doesn’t fill the hole in your heart, not right away. I was still part of Lee’s care team in those months — seeing him daily, supporting his needs. But when I came home, I returned to somewhere quiet. Somewhere my nervous system could breathe. And gradually, as I claimed it as my own, it began to feel more and more like home.
The Science of Why Objects Mean So Much
There is research behind what I was doing intuitively, and I find it comforting.
Maslow’s hierarchy of needs — the framework that maps human needs from the most basic physical requirements up through safety, love, esteem, and finally self-actualization — suggests that our belongings serve us at multiple levels simultaneously. They provide safety, security, and a sense of confidence. They anchor us to ourselves when everything else is shifting.
More recent research focuses specifically on the relationship between humans and their material possessions — and what it means, psychologically, to hold on to things that carry meaning. The findings describe this behavior as intentional and healthy: a psychological effort to preserve emotional experiences that still matter. As one researcher put it, nostalgia is not about escaping the present. It is about using the past to strengthen emotional stability in the present.
That is exactly what my non-negotiables were doing for me. Not holding me back. Holding me up.
What I Know Now
It all started with one step forward.
Now - I smile when I think of the small town art festival where we found the gem that now graces my office wall — that artist is regionally recognized now, her work hanging throughout the area. I laugh out loud when I think of Lee teaching me how to hang drywall. My heart fills with pride when I look at photos of the homes we remodeled after the work was done.
These are the memories I want to fill my heart with. Not the grief, not the loss, not the long difficult years of the disease — though those are part of the story too. But the hard work. The laughter. The adventure. The belonging our life contained.
My connection to these objects is rooted in all of that.
Love. Hope. Belonging.
Removing myself from the physical source of sorrow was important. Essential to my growth — if not my survival. Staying in a space that held only echoes was not healing. Moving forward was.
But I didn’t move forward empty-handed.
I brought the non-negotiables. The art we chose together. The tools from his workshop. The photographs of a life that was full and real and ours.
And in a new space, with those pieces around me, I am belonging to myself again, one room at a time.
What are your non-negotiables? The objects that carry memories too precious to leave behind — what are they, and what do they hold for you? I'd love to hear in the comments.
My dear friend Vicki. You must (for me) you must stop writing. Please, I'm running out of boxes of tissues! At least I've found it very healthy for my sinuses to read your posts. As I thought about your request asking, "what are your non-negotiables?" I looked around my office first, then in my mind the rest of our home. EVERYTHING I see is a reminder in some way of the life Jan and I have shared. If I were to ever start over, NOTHING would change. I'd be sitting in a different shape of walls, looking at everything we now own. There is truly a story about each piece of everything. I'm glad I do not know how to move on because I do not want to. My life with Jan is all around me, and I'm hoping it doesn't have to change.