There’s something surreal about walking through a house after the walls are bare. A space that once held laughter, hard conversations, quiet mornings, slammed doors, celebrations, and tears… suddenly echoes. And yet somehow it still feels full. As @Shannon Koss and I wrapped up this move, I kept hearing the song House Again on the drive from Los Angeles to Arizona. It hit differently every time. Because you realize a house isn’t emptied when the pictures come down. The pictures were never the memories. They’re just symbols. Little anchors we hang on drywall to remind us of moments that already live somewhere deeper. The trinkets, the frames, the worn-in corners of a room — they don’t contain the life we lived there. They represent it. The real memories aren’t stored on shelves. They live in consciousness. In the body. In the soul. In the heart. They’re accessible anytime, artifact or not. Close your eyes and you’re back in the kitchen. Back in the argument that made you stronger. Back in the hug that fixed everything. Back in the version of you that was becoming who you are now. That’s what makes a house a home: Not the walls. Not the decor. Not the address. It’s the invisible imprint of living. And the beautiful part is… we carry that imprint with us. Every time we leave one home, we’re not starting over — we’re expanding the story. We will miss the house on Mary Ellen Ave., but now it's on to building new memories in Gilbert, AZ! If you walked through an empty space that once meant everything to you... ...what memory would still be loudest, even with nothing left on the walls? 💬