When a House Isn’t Just a House: The ADHD Grief No One Talks About

Yesterday, my mom and stepdad told us they’re buying a house in Florida.

They’re not selling the house I grew up in—my brother’s going to live there and pay rent. But still, when they said they were moving?

It hit me like a punch I didn’t see coming.

Logically, I know it shouldn’t be a big deal. They promised they’d be back for the holidays and so honestly I probably won’t see them a whole lot less than I do now.
And I know it really is the best place for them both physically and mentally (New England winters are ROUGH on older bodies).

But logic didn’t stand a chance against the lump in my throat.

Because for me – and I suspect for a lot of people with ADHD – this wasn’t just about a move.
It was about yet another shift in the emotional landscape of my life.
Another thread of my childhood tugging loose.

It reminded me of how gutted I felt when my Nana and Papa’s cottage in New Hampshire was sold.
The cottage wasn’t just a place. It was the backdrop for some of my earliest and happiest memories.
I even lived there for a while when I was really young. It was a gathering place for a tight knit family. A place I forged memories and lifelong bonds with cousins. A constant.

Then came another wave more recently – when the house in Dorchester that had been my Nana and Papa’s main home (the one that later became my aunt and uncle’s) was sold.

And now, even though my childhood home isn’t technically being sold, it feels like the ending of a chapter.
The anchors are loosening. And it hurts. And the selfish way I acted when they told us the news? Not cool.

It’s a strange, quiet grief I’ve felt before. And yesterday, I realized it needed a name.

Place Attachment: I Didn’t Just Visit – I BECAME There

Childhood spaces aren’t just structures.

Especially not for ADHD brains that encode memories with such emotional intensity.
Places like these become living scrapbooks.

I didn’t just go to Nana and Papa’s house.
I became who I am there.

The porch we sat on.
The horseshoe pits I played for hours in.
My Papa’s huge garden.

Those aren’t just memories.
They’re emotional landmarks.

So when those places are sold or even just painted over by someone new, it doesn’t just feel like change.

It feels like loss.

My brain immediately wants to whisper:
“Am I losing that version of myself too?”

I know I’m not.
But it sure as fuck FEELS like I am.

Identity Continuity and the Anchor Effect

As we grow up, we build our sense of self on top of stable anchors—places, people, rituals.

And when you have ADHD, those anchors matter even more.
Because our lives so often feel chaotic, nonlinear, and full of stops and starts, we need fixed points to orient ourselves to.

So when a bunch of symbolic places disappear in a short amount of time, it creates a kind of identity vertigo.

Even if your parents are still alive.
Even if your family still loves you.

Those houses aren’t just places.
They were proof that my past happened.

And without them? It becomes too easy to wonder:
“Was it really that special or is my brain just making shit up?”

Well, I realize now you’re not just making it up.
You’re just reacting to the loss of an anchor.

That’s ADHD grief and place attachment at work.
And like it or not, that’s real grief.

Ambiguous Loss: Grief Without a Funeral

When I was trying to unpack my feelings from yesterday, I learned there’s a name for that grief.

It’s called ambiguous loss – when something deeply meaningful disappears, but it doesn’t happen in a clean or widely recognized way.

The cottage? Sold.
The house in Dorchester: Sold.
My parents? Not gone, but definitely emotionally relocated.

And there’s no obituary. No ritual. And no reminiscing over drinks.

Just a quiet, hollowed-out ache.

And why does it hit so different? Because no one tells you it’s okay to grieve a house.

But you know what? You can.
And you should.

Because it sounds corny as fuck but it wasn’t just wood and nails.

It was you.

The ADHD Layer: Emotional Encoding and Transitions

And here’s the hard part about ADHD grief and place attachment you probably already know – if you have ADHD, everything gets turned up.

All the joys. And definitely the pains. And of course the way one little smell can immediately bring you back decades.

Our memories might be inconsistent (ok…are DEFINITELY inconsistent).
But the ones tied to emotion filled places?

Those are seared in like a brand.

So when those places go, the intensity of the loss can blindside you.

And since ADHD brains also like to struggle with transitions, even hearing “Mom and Larry are moving to Florida” can feel like a personal earthquake—even if you only saw them a few times a year anyway.

At that point it’s not about logic.
It’s about emotional symbolism. And sometimes that sucks.

The Accumulation Effect: It’s Not Just This One

At some point, I also realized I’m not just mourning this one place.

I’m feeling the slow, quiet death of an entire chapter of my life. A MAJOR chapter of my life.

The version of me who watched Saturday morning cartoons downstairs.
And the one who played with my dog Hunter for hours in the backyard.
Even the one who spent way too much time getting in trouble there.

Now, the places that held those versions of me are fading away.

And again, my brain wants to whisper:
“It’s ALL fading away, isn’t it?”

But hear this from me now that I’ve realized it myself:

Fading isn’t the same as gone.

I’m the one who carries those places now.
I’m the scrapbook of memories.

And if you ever feel this kind of grief too, realize you’re not broken.
You’re just someone who felt deeply, lived vividly, and isn’t ready to let go of the places that built you.

ADHD grief and place attachment is real.

So let yourself mourn the homes that raised you.
Honor the emotional architecture.

And if this hit home, you’ll probably like my monthly newsletter, The Dopamine Drop—where I unpack ADHD life with truth, humor, and hope.
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