Before You Sell Your House: What Exactly Do You Want to Be Different About Your Life?

By Regine Rauin | When Rooms Tell Stories

 

Moving abroad is very much a thing at the moment. You hear about it. You read about it. You know someone who moved to Portugal. Or Spain.

Or Sweden.

Or some Greek island where apparently everyone walks around barefoot and starts drinking wine at five in the afternoon.

And at some point you think:

“Perhaps I should do that too.”

Germany is too crowded.

Too loud.

Too complicated.

The weather is rubbish.

People are exhausting.

The bureaucracy certainly is.

And anyway:

“I want out.”

Could be.

Perhaps moving abroad really is exactly the right thing for you.

But before you sell your house, put the dog in the campervan and send your entire existence hurtling down the motorway with a cheerful “It’ll be fine!”, I have one little question:

What exactly do you want to be different about your new life?

 

Because “somewhere else” isn’t a life plan.

I’ve just been reminded of that myself. I spent several days on my own with my boat in Friesland. And I absolutely loved that life.

I was moored at a generous mooring on a small island. This time, the island was completely walkable. Not just a tiny stretch of shoreline, but the whole island.

Water all around.

Boats.

Movement.

People.

And at the same time, an incredible amount of freedom.

The boats weren’t right on top of each other.

There was always a little space.

Enough to have some peace and quiet.

And close enough to notice what was going on around you.

There were lovely people with their dogs.

In the evenings, we sat together, watched shooting stars, talked, ate.

And then everyone went back to their own boat.

No goodbyes.

No elaborate arrangements.

No:

“Right, shall we book something in for Thursday at 7.30 pm?”

At some point, someone would appear again.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Shall we perhaps have a barbecue?”

And suddenly everyone was sitting together again.

 

I loved that life.

But not all of it. Because I also have the other side.

I love being alone. I love it when nobody wants anything from me. When I can simply get up in the morning and decide:

Today I’m going to write 20 blog articles.

And then I write 20 blog articles.

Without someone standing at the door.

Without having to explain myself.

Without someone suddenly asking:

“Fancy a coffee?”

No.

Not right now.

I want to write.

I want to paint.

I want to think.

I want to manage my own time.

That is also a rather important part of me.

And now comes the interesting realisation:

I’m not either one or the other.

I’m both.

 

Perhaps it’s the same for you.

Perhaps you say:

“I just want some peace and quiet.”

And once you have it, you realise:

“Why is there actually nobody here?”

Perhaps you want to meet more people.

And when someone is constantly ringing the doorbell, you think:

“Could you all please leave me alone?”

Perhaps you want to live right in the middle of the city. And after three months, you desperately need a forest. Perhaps you want to live in the countryside.

And six weeks later, you suddenly know exactly how many neighbours a person needs before they start developing an emotional relationship with the postman.

Perhaps you want to live by the sea. And discover that while you love the sea, you don’t necessarily love tourism.

Perhaps you want community. But not permanent community.

Perhaps you want a partner. But still want a room nobody enters without asking.

Perhaps you want freedom. But not complete lack of commitment.

Life is annoyingly complicated.

 

That’s why, before moving abroad, I would ask a different question.

Not:

“Where do I want to live?”

But:

“How do I want to live?”

How much peace and quiet do I need?

How much movement?

How much nature?

How many people?

How much spontaneity?

How much predictability?

How much closeness?

How much retreat?

How important is it to me that I can walk somewhere?

How important is it that someone can spontaneously pop round for a coffee?

How important is a garden?

How important is water?

How important is culture?

How important is it that I can close my door whenever I want?

And above all:

Which of these things are luxuries – and which do I actually need for my life to feel like my life?

That is a huge difference.

 

Perhaps you discover that you really do want to move abroad.

Brilliant.

At least then you know what for.

Perhaps you need the sea.

Perhaps warmth.

Perhaps more lightness.

Perhaps a different social culture.

Perhaps you want to live with fewer possessions.

Perhaps you want to be closer to people.

Perhaps you want to be further away from people.

Perhaps you want to reinvent your entire life.

Then go.

Not because everything here is shit.

But because you have worked out what you want instead.

 

Perhaps, however, you realise that you don’t actually want to move abroad.

Perhaps you just want to experience that feeling of freedom more often.

Perhaps you need a second place.

A studio.

A boat.

A little flat by the sea.

A regular weekend somewhere else.

A home that works differently from your current one.

Or simply more possibilities within the life you already have.

Because sometimes we try to solve a need that is actually much smaller with a gigantic change.

You don’t necessarily want to change your entire life.

Perhaps you just want to feel more often:

“I can decide what happens next.”

 

And then there is that very German speciality.

“But we bought the house.”

Yes.

We did.

And?

Sometimes it almost sounds as though, at the notary’s office, we didn’t just sign the purchase agreement, but a simultaneous contract:

“Till the land registry extract do us part.”

Of course a house is a major investment.

Of course there are memories attached to it.

Of course it represents work.

And of course it isn’t always sensible to simply throw everything away.

But:

A house is a home. Not a prison.

You are allowed to realise that it no longer fits.

You are allowed to realise that it still fits.

You are allowed to change it.

You are allowed to keep it and change your life anyway.

And one day you are allowed to say:

“I love this house. But I don’t want to live here anymore.”

That isn’t failure.

It’s an insight.

 

Your home can’t do everything.

That may be the most uncomfortable truth of all.

You can renovate. Extend. Knock down walls. Use rooms differently. Redo the kitchen. Create a home office. Build a terrace.

You can change an incredible amount.

But a house remains immobile.

Mine is exceptionally good at keeping me here.

It can give me greenery.

Animals.

Peace and quiet.

Retreat.

Nature.

And I love that.

But if one day I say:

“I want to walk to the water in the morning, swim, paint and spontaneously sit down with people in the evening,”

then my house can’t simply say:

“No problem. I’ll come with you tomorrow.”

Sadly.

I asked it.

It is astonishingly inflexible.

 

That’s why a WOHNUNGS-READING begins with a much bigger question.

Not:

“What’s wrong with my home?”

But:

“What kind of life do I actually want to live?”

Because only then can we decide whether our home fits.

Perhaps it fits perfectly.

Perhaps it needs changing.

Perhaps it needs supplementing.

Perhaps it needs a goodbye.

And perhaps it simply needs permission for different sides of you to have different spaces.

 

So before you move abroad, move out mentally first.

Not out of your house.

Out of your previous idea of what your life is supposed to look like.

Imagine, for a moment, that money, habits, possessions and other people’s opinions didn’t matter.

And then ask yourself:

How do I want to wake up in the morning?

What do I want to see when I walk out of the door?

How spontaneously do I want to be able to encounter people?

How much time do I want to spend alone?

How much nature do I need?

How much movement?

How much security?

How much adventure?

And who do I want to share this life with?

Perhaps the answer lies in another country.

Perhaps two streets away.

Perhaps in your own house.

Perhaps on a boat.

Perhaps in a rather mad mixture of all of it.

But at least then you know what you are looking for.

Because another place does not automatically create another life.

But a different understanding of how you want to live can change quite a lot.

 

How Do You Actually Want to Live?

A question we surprisingly rarely ask, even though that is exactly what we do every day.

We ask:

Where should I live?

How big does the flat need to be?

How much does the house cost?

City or countryside?

Sea or mountains?

Buy or rent?

But the question that really ought to come first is:

How do you actually want to live?

Not someday.

Not when the children have left home.

Not when you retire.

Not when you finally have enough money.

Now.

Because you are already living a life.

The only question is:

Did you consciously choose it?

 

Perhaps that is exactly the problem with our homes.

We choose spaces according to criteria that are easy to measure.

Square metres.

Rooms.

Location.

Price.

Garden.

Garage.

Cellar.

Balcony.

And then we wonder why we sometimes feel less at home in 140 square metres than we do in 45.

Because a floor plan doesn’t tell you how your life will feel inside it.

A large house can accommodate loneliness beautifully. A small flat can be full of life. A beautiful garden can become a prison. A kitchen can be the heart of a family.

Or a place where everyone sits opposite each other every evening, staring at their phones.

So the question isn’t only:

“How much space do I need?”

But:

“What do I need in the life that is going to happen inside this space?”

 

Closeness or distance?

Perhaps you need people.

But not constantly.

Perhaps you want to be able to meet someone spontaneously without first arranging a calendar consultation involving three different people.

And at the same time, you want to be able to go home whenever you like and close the door.

That isn’t a contradiction.

It’s a need.

Perhaps you need exactly this combination:

Closeness without being swallowed up.

 

Peace or movement?

Perhaps you want to look out of the window in the morning and hear nothing.

And in the afternoon, you want to be right in the middle of things.

Perhaps you want nature on your doorstep and a café five minutes away.

Perhaps you want to walk the dog through the woods in the morning and go to a concert in the evening.

Perhaps you need peace as your foundation and movement as your nourishment.

Or exactly the other way round.

There is no right value here.

There is only:

What works for you?

 

Community or retreat?

This is one of my favourite questions.

Because we often treat community as though it has to mean:

Everyone together. All the time.

But perhaps you need something completely different.

People nearby.

But doors.

Retreat.

But not loneliness.

Shared meals.

But also a room nobody enters without asking.

Perhaps the ideal home isn’t one where all the rooms are shared.

Perhaps it is one where it is very clear:

This is us.

and:

This is me.

Both are allowed to exist.

 

Spontaneity or predictability?

Some people love it when someone suddenly turns up at the door.

Others develop mild heart palpitations at the very thought.

Both are fine.

But it becomes a problem when your home constantly forces you into a way of living you don’t actually want.

When having people over is always complicated.

When retreat is impossible.

When you have to prepare half the house for every encounter.

Or when you actually would like to have people around, but your home works in such a way that every meeting becomes a logistical military operation.

Then perhaps your personality isn’t the difficult bit.

Perhaps your surroundings simply don’t fit your needs.

 

Security or adventure?

Perhaps you want a fixed place.

A place where you know where everything is.

Perhaps you want roots.

And at the same time, sometimes you simply want to leave.

Perhaps your perfect life therefore isn’t “settled” or “nomadic”.

Perhaps it is:

settled with exits.

A home you genuinely like coming back to.

And a life that still keeps pulling you out into the world.

 

And now it gets interesting.

Because when you put all these things next to each other, something suddenly emerges that is far more valuable than a list of housing preferences.

You begin to see your life design.

Perhaps it looks something like this:

I want peace in the morning.

I want nature.

I want to be able to work with concentration during the day.

I don’t want people around me all the time.

But I want to be able to meet people whenever I want.

I want to go out for dinner spontaneously.

I want a dog.

I want to paint.

I want to travel.

I want to love someone without being fused to them 24 hours a day.

That isn’t a property listing.

That is a fulfilling life.

 

And now you can put your home next to it.

Not to judge it.

But to see:

What can it already do?

What could it do with a few changes?

What could it never do?

That last one is particularly important.

Because some things cannot be renovated.

A house can be beautiful.

But if you have to drive for 45 minutes every morning to reach the life you actually want to live, that drive is part of your life.

A flat can be perfect for retreat.

But if every spontaneous encounter means travelling for an hour, that is also a condition of your life.

A house can have a beautiful garden.

But if what you actually want is to sit by the water every evening, something isn’t quite adding up.

 

That doesn’t mean we have to move straight away.

Quite the opposite.

Perhaps the insight is much smaller.

Perhaps you’re simply missing:

Your own room.

A door.

A bigger table.

A workspace that can disappear in the evening.

A place outside.

A place for friends.

A place for you.

Perhaps you’re missing a regular escape.

A second place.

A club.

A hobby.

A new neighbourhood.

Or simply permission to stop living the life you planned ten years ago.

 

And sometimes this question really does lead to moving house.

Then that’s fine too.

But then you aren’t simply moving away.

You are moving towards something.

That is a big difference.

You aren’t saying:

“I want to get away from here.”

You are saying:

“I want to go there because I can live my life better there.”

That changes the entire decision.

 

Perhaps your home isn’t actually too small.

Perhaps your life has become too big.

Or the other way round.

Perhaps you built a huge house and now realise that you actually want to own far less. Perhaps you have a small flat and dream of a workshop. Perhaps you went looking for peace and quiet and now realise that what you’re missing is people.

Perhaps you went looking for community and now desperately need a room where nobody wants anything from you.

Life doesn’t stand still.

Why should your home?

 

That’s why I find this question much more interesting:

“What do I want to experience?”

How often do I want to see people?

How often do I want to be alone?

How much time do I want to spend outside?

How much time do I want to be creative?

How much do I want to work?

How much do I want to travel?

How spontaneous do I want to be?

How much security do I need?

How much adventure can I handle?

And which people do I want around me?

If you answer these questions honestly, finding the right home suddenly becomes much easier.

Because then you’re no longer looking for a house.

 

You’re looking for the conditions for your life.

About the Author

I'm Regine Rauin, also known as Mystic Maveress.

I read rooms the way other people read tarot cards.

And every now and then...

...I write a book.

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🗝️ Because many of the answers are already living with you.