Breathing Through Change: Finding Calm After the Move

The boxes are mostly unpacked, the furniture has found its place, and yet, the house still feels unfamiliar. Moving is supposed to be about new beginnings, but what no one tells you is that it’s also about grief, the quiet kind that lingers in the spaces between what was and what is.

Now that we’re here, I see the weight of this change in all of us. My children are adjusting in their own ways, trying to make sense of this new space, this new routine, this new version of home. I feel it too. The stress of the move is over, but the emotions it stirred up are still settling, shifting like dust in the air.

And so, we breathe.

We’ve been using breathwork since the beginning of this transition, from the first overwhelming conversations about moving to the chaos of packing and saying goodbye. Now, as we settle in, breathwork continues to be our anchor.

For my youngest, it’s the deep belly breaths when the newness feels too big, when the unfamiliar shadows in their room make it hard to sleep, when they just want things to feel like they used to. We sit together, inhaling slowly, filling up like balloons, and then exhaling, letting it all go. Some nights, it takes a few rounds before their little body relaxes, but eventually, they drift off, the breath guiding them into rest.

For my older children, the emotions are more complex. Excitement and nervousness weave together as they navigate new friendships, new routines, new uncertainties. The questions still come: What if I don’t fit in? What if I miss my old friends too much? What if this never feels like home? I don’t always have the right words, but I do have the breath. When the worries come, we sit together and breathe, slow, steady inhales, even longer exhales, reminding our bodies that we are safe, that we are capable, that we are exactly where we need to be.

And for me? Breathwork is what keeps me grounded in the midst of it all. The stress of the move may be behind me, but the exhaustion lingers. The responsibility of making this house a home, of holding space for everyone’s emotions, including my own, feels heavy some days. There are moments when I catch myself holding my breath, tension building in my shoulders, my mind racing with all the things still left to do. And so, I pause. I close my eyes, inhale deeply, hold for just a second, and then exhale, long and slow.

It doesn’t make everything perfect. The house is still unfamiliar in some ways. The adjustment period isn’t over. But the breath reminds me that home isn’t just a place, it’s something we create within ourselves, something we carry with us no matter where we are.

And that, more than anything, is what I want my children to remember. That change is hard, but we can move through it with kindness, with patience, with breath. That when things feel uncertain, when the world shifts beneath us, we always have something steady to return to: the simple, steady rhythm of our own breath.

Because no matter where we are, no matter what changes, we will always have that.