There is a vacation home in the back woods of southern Utah where my family and I have gone nearly every January for the past 8 years.

We found it at a time when our lives were in major transition and upheaval. As we drove up to the house for the first time, we were all amazed at how incredible the place was. A large mountain home on 5 acres, this place became our sanctum after the busyness of the holidays.

And last week, we found out that the house sold and is no longer listed as a vacation rental.

I admit, the news hit me rather hard. You see, this is a place I tend to reserve every January—but it’s so important and meaningful a trip that I typically book it in August, so my family and I can anticipate the cold, snowy winter while we’re sweating it out in the Southern California summer.

I have videos of our children sledding on the hill behind the house, their voices high, their noses red, the squeals of delight and laughter puncturing the stillness of the quiet snow.

During our first stay there, our kids were 7, 5, and 4 years old.

We didn’t know it at the time, but our last stay there, our kids were 15, 13, and 12.

The memories we built over the years were some of my favorite family memories we’ve experienced together:

Board games by the fireplace while the snow falls gently outside.

Icicles that ran 3-4 feet long, held in the hands of my smiling son.

Hot chocolate with little feet swaying on barstools at the kitchen counter:

Brotherly challenges of running through the snow barefoot.

A frozen pond that the boys would shovel the snow from, and sled down the nearby embankments, sliding across the ice in delight.

Glasses of wine and warm conversation by the fireplace at night after the kids have gone down.

Coffee and pink skies at sunrise, looking out at the magnificent view.

I could literally go on for pages.

It feels like a chapter has been ripped out, and while I celebrate the amazing memories, I grieve the loss of the future memories we had expected to create in the years to come.

It had truly become the place we could look forward to experiencing the peace that our human hearts so desperately crave.

And now it’s no longer available.

Can you relate?

Has a part of you been ripped out of your life’s pages recently?

Has major disappointment been a thing you’ve experienced in the past 18 months?

Let’s start with the honest acknowledgement that it hurts. That it’s a major bummer. Maybe you need to write a eulogy of sorts for the opportunities, the experiences, the memories, that could have been, but were lost.

It’s ok to grieve.

It’s actually healthy to grieve.

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I had a hard time sleeping the night I learned about the house.

I know, that may sound silly, but this place was one of the regular highlights of our year, and the time together was so, so rich.

Tossing and turning, and realizing I needed to grieve, I allowed myself the space to do so. And if I’m honest, I still get the pangs of grief even now.

So we’re left with a choice:

We could throw our hands in the air and give up, letting the cruelties of life get the last laugh, or we could fight on, creating new memories in new places.

And the truth is, I don’t want new memories in new places. I want new memories in familiar places.

But that’s not how life works, at least not all the time.

And so I choose the new places.

Because at least we’ll be creating memories, and that’s so much better than not creating any memories at all.

It sounds like a risk that’s worth taking.

And who knows? We just might find a new place where we have new views, and perhaps that new space has enough room for future grandchildren, where, many years down the road, a new batch of little feet will sway with their hot chocolate, as the ones with the older feet look on, reflecting on the memories that tie us all together in this beautiful journey we call life…