Washington reinvents itself on a fixed schedule, the way some people buy a new car the moment the lease is up — not because the old one failed, but because the calendar said it was time.
I watched it happen again this week. The primaries rolled in from a dozen states, the city read the tea leaves the way it always does, and by morning, a certain kind of Washingtonian had quietly concluded that the next chapter might be better lived somewhere else. They won’t say that’s why. They’ll say the kids are gone, or the winters got long, or they’ve always wanted a place near the water. And they’ll be telling the truth — just not the whole of it. In this town, the personal reason and the political weather tend to arrive in the same envelope.
I find the whole thing oddly comforting. After thirty years and somewhere north of a billion dollars in other people’s front doors, I’ve stopped being surprised by the churn and started being fond of it. Washington is a city that cannot sit still. It is always either arriving or leaving, packing or unpacking, and a remarkable number of those boxes pass through my hands.
What I’ve learned is that the house is never the reason. It’s the occasion.
Some of the occasions are joyful. A family outgrows its walls. A career takes off, or finally lets someone leave. But many are quieter, and a few are heavy. The children are launched and the rooms echo. The stairs that were nothing at fifty have become the day’s main negotiation at eighty. There’s a move to a single floor, or to a community where help is down the hall, or the slow and tender business of selling a house because the person you shared it with is no longer in it. I have stood in a lot of kitchens while someone decided what their next, smaller life was going to look like. It is the most human work I do, and the part the spreadsheets never capture.
Through all of it, I keep one fixed point. While Washington changes its mind every other November, I drive out to a historic farm in Somerville, Virginia, where the fields have not had a strong opinion about anything since 1835. The contrast is the whole secret. You cannot watch a city reinvent itself this often without somewhere quiet to watch it from. The farm is my somewhere. It is also, not coincidentally, where I do my clearest thinking about what my clients actually need, which is rarely what the market thinks they need.
Here’s what the market gets wrong. It treats a sale as an ending and a purchase as a separate beginning, two transactions performed by two sets of strangers who never speak. For most of my career that was simply the way of things. You sold a Washingtonian their freedom and then waved as they vanished into someone else’s territory, hoping the agent on the other end was halfway competent.
And more often than you’d think, the call comes from the new city. The owner is already in Tampa, or Tampa-adjacent, phoning about a house in Kalorama they’re no longer standing in. The move happened first; the listing is the loose end. By the time I have the keys, the family photos are already on a wall a thousand miles away. Which tells you something about the old way of doing this: the right moment to have me in the room was before they left, with both ends of the move in one set of hands.
So I got tired of hoping, and I built that team — one that spans the corridor my clients actually live in: Washington, London, New York, Los Angeles, Georgia, Tampa and Palm Beach. And I stay in it for the whole journey. Not the listing and a handshake goodbye. The whole arc. The hard conversation about whether it’s really time. The staging and the sale here. The search on the other end, in a city where I already know the good blocks and the right people. The landing, and the first few weeks after, when a person is standing in a new place, wondering if they made a terrible mistake. I’m there for that part too.
One move instead of two. Sell in Kalorama, land in Tampa. Leave a McLean house that’s grown too big, arrive in a New York apartment near the grandchildren — or in London, if that’s where the children are scattered. Same hands the whole way. No re-explaining your life to a new stranger at the worst possible moment.
That, increasingly, is the business I’m in. Not the buying and selling of houses — anyone with a license can do that — but the holding-together of a transition, end to end. The election may be what gets someone thinking. Health, age, family, the simple mathematics of too much house — that’s what actually moves them. And a broker who treats the entire journey as one job, across cities, is what makes the move bearable, sometimes even good.
Washington will change its mind again. It always does. The names on the doors will turn over, the moving trucks will line the streets of Georgetown and Kalorama like they do every couple of years, and a certain number of my neighbors will decide their story continues elsewhere.
When they do, they know where to find me. I am with them for the whole journey.
