On rehoming through divorce, and creating my sanctuaries.

And the story of how the universe gave me back my old favourite house

“A home should be a stockade, a refuge from the flaming arrows of anxiety, tension and worry.” — Wilfred Peterson”

When you’re going through a divorce, the very foundations of your life are rocked. The roots that tether you to the ground are often excavated.

For many, and certainly for me, those roots are about home. A safe and comforting place where you feel grounded and connected, you can close the door and feel enveloped by calm and warmed by the environment. Somewhere where I knew the children and I could retreat into, close the door and breathe.

But here’s the funny thing, I hadn’t had that feeling for years. Our family home in North London was a whirlwind of energy, partly to do with having 4 children with their varying personalities but there was also another factor, something hard to put my finger on. It was a lovely home, special even, and the garden was a true delight, a beautiful blend of gorgeous planting, socialising space, and fun for the children (hello sunken trampoline and hot tub). We were privileged. It was somewhere people loved to gather, and I was happy to host. But I never felt truly grounded there, a feeling of being in the wrong place. I was always craving, and at times actively looking for, the next place, the place that would make me feel settled. At home. It was also a place where I grew further and further away from myself, whilst desperately wanting to stay close.

Sometimes I wonder if it was because my ex put in an offer on it in 2009 without including me in the decision, perhaps it set us off on the wrong path. Not that it wasn’t a great house, and we were lucky to have it, just that I never felt fully connected to it. And I always felt the burden of being the person who had to care for it, notice what was needed and make it happen. Looking after houses takes a lot of care and energy and I never felt we shared that responsibility (hello more mental and practical load). So it was a responsibility for something I’d not really been asked about, I guess. Not that I wish to seem ungrateful. Perhaps just another example of our disconnect.

It’s also true that I’ve always had a slightly complicated relationship with London, never really wanting to be here, ultimately I’m a country mouse. And it’s hard for a country mouse to live in a capital city, with all it’s energy, stimulation and busyness. I’ve long craved a more peaceful and soulful life.

As the facts around our lives became clear early on in our divorce, it was evident to me that the family home needed to be sold. It was the only way that funds could easily be accessed to create financial safety and provide the next step forwards in our lives. But my ex, in a desire to hang onto the family home for himself (to be fair I was happy to leave, but not at the cost of having nowhere to live), wouldn’t agree to its sale until he was forced to by law, and in the end - after a ruling - I was given six days to pack up a five bedroom family home, and find somewhere for myself and our three children to move to. Mortgage rates were high, so the rental market was on fire and you had to commit quickly, something you can’t do if you don’t know for sure if the paperwork to sell your own home will be signed by the other party. He was, by this stage, living in a one bed flat next door that we also owned but was unwilling vacate temporarily, to stay with his mother, in order that the children and I could have somewhere to stay whilst I figured out the plan (he wasn’t in great shape health wise, so the kids all staying with him wasn’t an option).

And so I scrambled to find somewhere where we could land. And whatever your religious leanings (mine were at best limited), what unfolded over the next few months has shown me that for sure, the universal powers are in force.

In the space of those six days I packed up the home whilst also racing around parts of expansive (and wildly expensive) north London looking at the few rental properties on the market. With three children of varying ages, needs and personalities I really needed four bedrooms, space for everyone to recover, and close enough to their schools. Yet, in my despair and anxiety, and bid to keep the cost down, I also looked at three beds and my friends had to hold me back from looking at two beds. Finally admitting that I had to suffer the expense, amazingly I found a four bed that was available immediately and paid the deposit that day (with money I had to borrow from friends). Then it fell through. Then I remembered that the people buying our house were in a four bedroom rental and messaged them to see if it was still available. It was! So I whizzed round that dark Saturday evening and viewed it. It was lovely, better than the one that fell through - but not available for a month while they stayed put and did some work in our/their cellar. I secured the house immediately.

(I hasten to add that as all this was happening, my ex’s new lawyer was verbally, and on email, criticising me for not having a plan of where we were going to live, and accused me of being greedy in asking for deposit money (which I didn’t have because I no access to the marital funds) - it was astounding, unhelpful and very upsetting, a small example of how lawyers can be so toxic and need to handle family cases with great care).

A friend about eight doors along the road from our family home had a studio in the garden. But not just any studio, it had a double bed and a sofa bed, plus a small kitchen and bathroom. With a gap in her lettings, that’s where we landed. I made my ex have one of the children per night to make things more comfortable (and also because he just ‘should’). So the children spent the next month running up and down the road between small homes. It was a funny time, but I also loved that little studio, it felt a bit like an adventure, glamping. And with some money in the bank from the sale of the house (as ordered by a judge) I was also finally free to start making choices that worked for us.

Although there was one big unresolved issue.

Were we to stay in London or move to the countryside where homes and life were cheaper? I had applied to court to relocate to Cumbria, (The Lake District) in the north of England, not only where my heart and family are, but where I felt I would have the best chance of rebuilding a life that could be stable and affordable, given that my ex had taken us to the brink of financial collapse and future finances were very uncertain. I certainly couldn’t afford a home in London for the foreseeable future. And so my email inbox was filled with properties all over north London and Cumbria, and I looked at every single one, fuelled by anxiety, constantly wondering if THAT could be the property I could make work somehow.

In December 2023, whilst that cloud continued to gather over us, we moved into the four bed rental and waited for court hearings to roll around in July 2024.

In February I caught the flu, surrendered and lay in bed for a whole week. During this time I had yet another detailed court statement to write about the relocation application. As I typed, one of many daily Rightmove (property site) emails landed. I opened it immediately. “Oh” I thought. “There’s Meadow View”.

Meadow View was a property I had once owned as a holiday home in Cumbria. I had sold it in early 2019 to help fund a large agricultural barn renovation with my husband (which was all lost in his financial crisis) and when I’d driven past Meadow View over these years I’d felt sad, I’d loved that little house. It had always been in my name, and it felt like mine, it was where I took the children every school holiday, mostly just me and them.  To the untrained eye it is just a narrow, three bed terraced house in a village. But, to me, it’s incredibly special.

At first I felt sad that Meadow View was on the market and it wasn’t still mine. I sent the details over to my sister who now tells me, in another ‘sign from the universe’, that her phone pinged with the message at the very moment she was driving past it on her way back from work. Then very quickly I thought “hang on, I think I should buy it back”. I had enough money in the bank to buy it outright (but not enough to buy in London), so, to cut a long story short, after consultation with my lawyers, I have.

When I completed and collected the keys, I held them in my hand and looked at them - they were on the same keyring I’d left for the young couple who I sold it to 5.5 years ago, and sold it back to me. My keys. The house was more or less how I’d left it, bar some minor decor changes. And so I was home. At last. My place in the country, my little piece of heaven, of peace and deep connection. My lawyer said, in very non lawyer style, “the lay lines must be strong under this house.” They are.

In the end I dropped my relocation application after my ex created a difficult episode at the children’s schools, which showed him to be so dysregulated and destabilised that I became very fearful about the impact on the children if he was unable to be on board with the plan, and make a transition work as well as it could.

So, for now, we stay in London and I hope for the best on the finances. I am putting in a new bathroom in Meadow View, making it into a gorgeous sanctuary for us and I will rent it as holiday let to help with income. I will go as often as I can and restore my soul with the energy of the house and the incredible nature around. I will hike, work and recover there. And it is there as a safe option if the finances can’t work and London becomes 100% untenable.

In London, I have finally finished unpacking the last remaining boxes in our rental that I had literally zero energy to unpack after the enormous drain of the past few years. I sit and write now in the lovely little space these boxes have vacated, and I am filling this home with fairy lights and candles as I make it a sanctuary too. A place where we can all decompress and stabilise after a wild ride. And where the children, and I, can finally find some calm and peace. For now.

Susie x

#motherhood #divorce #home