What We’re Selling, Keeping, and Regretting Before Moving to Albania
This blog tells the story in writing. The full video is here
We’re 14 days away from moving to Albania, and right now our house does not look like the beginning of a beautiful new life.
It looks like limbo.
There are piles everywhere. Clothes on the floor because we sold the dressers too early. A TV sitting on a folding table because the TV stand is gone. Counters covered in the last weird mix of things that somehow didn’t sell, didn’t get packed, and still haven’t found a final destination. We’re eating badly, living out of half-packed rooms, and asking ourselves very serious questions like: do we really need towels, snow boots, or 15 books in Albania?
This is the part of moving abroad people don’t always show.
Not the dream. Not the view. Not the fantasy of a slower, simpler life on the other side.
This part.
The part where you’re stuck between two lives.
We’re still here, but not really. The old life is being dismantled piece by piece, and the new one hasn’t started yet. That’s what this stage has felt like for us: practical, chaotic, emotional, and a lot less glamorous than “we sold everything and moved abroad” makes it sound.
What we’ve sold before moving abroad
At this point, we’ve sold almost everything we could.
The couch. End tables. TV stand. Dressers. Lawn tools. Wagons. Baskets. Craft supplies. Random house items we forgot we even owned until it was time to get rid of them. Some things sold quickly. Some things only moved when we priced them low enough to make the decision for people. At one point, we had a $2 garage sale because the goal stopped being “make money” and became “please take this out of our house.”
Most of the real money came from Marketplace, and so far we’ve made around $8,000 selling things from the house. That matters, of course. But if we’re being honest, this process stopped being about profit pretty quickly.
It became about momentum.
When you’re trying to move abroad with only a handful of suitcases, the question changes. It’s no longer “What is this worth?” It becomes “Is this worth carrying into our next life?”
That’s a much harder question than it sounds.
What we donated instead of selling
Not everything was worth listing.
And not everything was worth the time, energy, or frustration of trying to squeeze one more sale out of it.
So we donated carloads of things to a local charity in town. The kind of items that were still useful, still fine, but no longer made sense for where we’re headed. Some of those donations were easy. Some weren’t. Sometimes letting go of something for free feels more emotional than selling it, because it makes the goodbye feel final in a different way.
There’s no illusion left once it’s gone.
This whole process has made us realize how much can quietly build up around a life. Not just furniture and kitchen stuff and tools, but identity. Habits. Versions of yourself attached to old routines and old rooms and old plans.
What we’re keeping
Not much.
That’s the short answer.
What we’re keeping has to fit into four to six suitcases, which sounds manageable until you actually try to reduce a whole life down to that. Suddenly every item feels like a debate.
Do we bring towels? Pillows? Cold-weather clothes? Books? How many hygiene products are too many? Which things are practical, and which things are comfort items disguised as practical?
This part has been harder than I expected.
Because “keeping” isn’t really about stuff. It’s about what makes the cut when you can’t bring your whole life with you. What feels essential. What feels grounding. What feels like home when home is no longer a place you fully live in.
What we already regret
Honestly, we sold a few things too early.
The dressers are the best example. Getting rid of them felt productive in the moment, and then suddenly our clothes were in piles on the floor migrating from room to room like they had their own agenda. We sold enough furniture that normal life started becoming weirdly inconvenient. The TV ended up on a folding table. We forgot we had sold the strainer until it was time to make spaghetti. We don’t even have a coffee pot anymore.
Those are small regrets, but they’re real.
And I think that’s important to say.
When people talk about simplifying, downsizing, or starting over, it can sound so clean and intentional. Sometimes it is. Other times it looks like wearing whatever shirt you can find because the rest of your clothes are packed, sold, or buried in a pile you no longer have the energy to sort through.
We’re not regretting the move.
We’re regretting parts of the process.
Those are not the same thing.
The emotional cost of letting go
This part is bigger than the house.
We’re not just selling furniture. We’re letting go of ease, familiarity, and the version of life we’ve been living for a long time. We’re carrying the weight of family reactions, the guilt that can creep in when people don’t understand your decision, and the weird emotional whiplash of knowing something can be right for you and still hurt.
Some people have been supportive. Some have been sad. Some have been angry. Some have reacted out of fear, love, confusion, or all three at once.
That has been one of the hardest parts.
Because even when you feel sure, it still hurts to know your choice lands heavily for people you care about.
And then there’s the private part of it.
The late-night questions. The stress. The second-guessing. The wondering if the timeline is right, if the bags will close, if the apartment is real, if the life you imagine will match the life you actually step into.
This stage of moving abroad is not all confidence and clarity.
Sometimes it feels exciting. Sometimes it feels freeing. And sometimes it feels like standing in a half-empty house wondering if you’ve lost your mind.
Why we’re still doing it
Because even with all of that, this still feels like the right move.
Not easy. Not polished. Not painless.
Right.
We’re moving to Albania because we want a different pace of life. More breathing room. More intention. More time together. More space to actually live instead of constantly managing, buying, maintaining, and recovering from the pace of everything.
That doesn’t erase the mess of getting there.
But it does make the mess worth it.
Watch the full video
This post tells the story in writing, but the video shows the chaos, the humor, and the reality of this stage much better.