Let’s get one thing straight: moving by yourself is a chaotic fever dream dressed up as "personal growth." It sounds noble when you say it aloud (“I’m moving all on my own!”), but somewhere between boxing up your third set of half-burnt candles and realizing you’ve been living like a sentimental hoarder, the glamour shatters. Quickly.

I remember standing in the middle of my living room, holding a roll of packing tape like it was a foreign object. Should I pack the kitchen first? The clothes? The random drawer of dead batteries and rubber bands? No one tells you that the hardest part isn't the heavy lifting—it's the decision fatigue that hits you like a brick wall before you've even packed a single box.

I stood there in what I later dubbed my "Packing Purgatory," paralyzed by the weight of everything. Eventually, I grabbed the junk drawer and dumped it on the floor like a mad scientist, just to do something. That chaos gave me momentum. Movement over perfection.

If you’re like me, you’ll probably start a box, get distracted by a photo album from 2008, cry for a minute, then start deep-cleaning your windows because "it’ll help." Spoiler: it doesn’t. You're just spiraling productively. But starting small—one drawer, one shelf, one corner—was how I broke the paralysis. The goal wasn’t completion. It was ignition.

That’s when the emotional rollercoaster really kicked in. There’s a bizarre tension that comes with moving alone. On one hand, it feels like starring in a movie montage—empowering music, dramatic lighting, one girl and her dreams. But in reality? It's five days of sweat, cursing, and realizing you packed your toothbrush with the kitchen utensils.

And then it hits you: every object you own is your responsibility now. No one else to pawn things off on. No one to help you decide what stays and what gets the boot. It’s all you, baby. And that’s both panic-inducing and liberating as hell.

I tried to ground myself in practical strategies, because otherwise I’d end up arguing with a pile of extension cords. I stopped thinking in rooms and started thinking in zones. Not “pack the kitchen,” but “pack the spice rack.” Not “pack the closet,” but “just the shoes.” Shrinking the scale made it manageable.

I made what I now call my “Necessity Box.” This was sacred. Toothpaste, comfy clothes, coffee fixings, my dog’s leash, and my backup charger. It was the box I’d cling to like a life raft the first 48 hours in my new place. I labeled it like it held ancient treasure. Because in that moment, it kinda did.

Music wasn’t background noise—it was momentum. I built my own soundtrack as I packed, full of raw energy and mood swings: Arctic Monkeys to shake off the inertia, Rage Against the Machine when I needed to lift furniture solo, and a few melancholy indie ballads for when nostalgia started leaking out of old boxes. Every rip of tape, every stumble over a half-filled box, felt synced to the music. I wasn’t just packing—I was keeping time with myself. Soundtracking the mess gave the chaos rhythm, and somehow, that made me feel like I had control—even if just for three minutes at a time.

Timers also became my best friend. Twenty-five-minute packing sprints, five-minute breaks. I wasn’t trying to finish—I was just trying to keep moving. Progress, not perfection. I cried more than I expected, laughed at how dramatic I was being, and then cried some more. Turns out, moving alone is as much emotional shedding as it is logistical.

Of course, there were snafus. One move, I packed everything except pants. I had dresses, blazers, an embarrassing number of scarves, but not a single pair of pants. I did errands in leggings for a week and pretended it was a choice. Another time, I boxed my shower curtain like a fool and ended up trying to shower behind a duct-taped trash bag. Not exactly a spa day.

And there was one gut-punch moment I’ll never forget. I found an old toy my late dog used to carry around. I sat on the kitchen floor and cried so hard I scared my current dog. Grief, memories, change—it all shows up in the tape and the boxes.

But you know what else shows up? The version of you that’s been quietly waiting for the moment to step out from beneath the chaos and claim the next thing. The you that decides. The you that rebuilds. The you that stumbles through the chaos and still shows up to your new front door with keys in hand and at least one clean fork.

Moving alone is messy, empowering, heartbreaking, exhilarating—kind of like any good coming-of-age story. You’re going to sit on a bare floor eating cold pizza at some point and wonder if you’re a fool for doing this. You’re not. You’re building a life that is entirely, gloriously yours. Even if it smells a little like cardboard boxes and regret for a few weeks.

So: start small. Cry when you need. Curse when you want. Pack your shit. Blast your hype playlist. Dance with the broom like you’re in an indie film. Celebrate the dumb wins. Laugh at the absurdity.

Then go claim your next chapter. (Just maybe pack the pants first.)