Before we even leave, we’re already done

We’ve spent weeks preparing. Every spare moment went into our vehicle. Mart was under the hood, I was making lists. What still needed to be done. What it would cost. What we absolutely couldn’t forget. Because this time, it would be different. This time we’d be ready. We plan everything down to the minute, because if we don’t, it all slips through our fingers. We rarely manage to just go, not the way others can.

And now, we’ve been trying to leave for a week. But the world just keeps crashing over us.

Yesterday was yet another day with construction workers right next to the house. They’re building a playground. A playground.
As if the constant stream of stimulation wasn’t enough already. They’ve driven past our garden hundreds of times now, back and forth with sand and equipment. Their car and trailer are parked directly next to ours. We can’t go anywhere, unless we talk to them. And that’s something we simply don’t do. Can’t do.

One of them smokes, so sometimes the smell drifts into our garden. Into the house. A smell that instantly invades everything.
Two goalposts are already in place, and where the kids usually played football all the way on the far side of the field, they did it yesterday right next to our house. Right outside our window. With their father. The loud kind. Shouting. Dominant. As if they knew exactly where our threshold was and decided to stand right on top of it.

Later, a grandmother with two grandchildren joined. This neighbor boy on a fatbike sped past mum’s house with 20 kp/h. That happens often. Several times a day. The world rushes by, right through us, and we’re stuck in a corner.

We still had so much to do. Dishes. Packing final groceries. Things we truly couldn’t have done earlier. I had cooked in the middle of the day, something I usually avoid because it throws me completely off balance. Because then I know: the evening is gone. There’s no moment left to wind down. No film to watch together. And even if we tried, the quality of that moment would already be ruined. By stress. By the heaviness in my body. By knowing it’s too late to settle.

We should’ve left earlier. But we still had Scooby, the dog we were going to take for long walks.
Mart’s toe wasn’t healed yet, and he was on antibiotics and he had to soak his toe three times every day.
And I was still waiting for my period, which, because of all the stress, is now ridiculously late.

This entire week was a slow build-up to something that never happened. And then last night: a fight. Not because we don’t love each other. Not because we can’t talk. But because it’s all too much. Because our nervous systems are fried. Because PMDD rolls over me like a wave that distorts everything. Amplifies everything. Confuses everything.

This morning we were finally going to leave. But we were so tired. And that almost never happens. Truly tired, like, worn out to the bone. And we were panicking. Because the construction workers were already there again. And we didn’t know if we could even get to the car with our things.

And maybe it wasn’t just about today. Maybe we’re still carrying the weight of last time. Those three nights away… we were so excited, and then our vehicle gave out on us. We had to return suddenly.
Coming back felt heavier than never leaving at all. Like we were allowed a glimpse of freedom, only for it to be ripped away again.
I remember thinking: it almost hurt more to feel a little space, than to never feel it at all. Since then, that experience has hung over us like a shadow. As if even leaving has become a risk now.

We just want it to be simple: to go, to sleep outside, to be still somewhere between trees, away from it all. But nothing is simple. Not in our situation. Not with this level of stress, noise, expectations, misunderstanding. We have to plan everything, weigh everything, endure everything before we even reach the front door.

And when it doesn’t work out again, when everything falls apart again, after all the effort, it doesn’t just feel like failure. It feels like the world is holding us hostage. Like we’re sentenced to stay indoors, survive and wait. Wait for space, silence, peace.


But we’re done.
We’re going. If we can manage, tomorrow morning. Before the street wakes up. That one short window when everything is still quiet.
No machines. No screaming children. No cars pinning us in.
We sneak out like we’re doing something illegal. No words, just looks. Every door must close softly. Every move must be right.
We lift the bags into our car with tense shoulders and heartbeats already spiking. In that moment, I feel everything at once: fear, doubt, exhaustion, but also something like hope.
Small. Fragile. Almost too delicate to hold onto.

And then we go. Not because we’re rested. Not because we’re excited. But because we have no choice. Because if we stay, we’ll break.