I was really traumatized the first time she moved, leaving the house I grew up in--though it was undoubtably for the best as the neighbors were insane--but since then it's turned into no big deal.
Each time my mother moved, more and more of my useless junk got jettisoned. Which was for the best, as I obviously didn't need it or I would have taken it with me to New York. (I am still jettisoning my own stuff, but for some reason I seem to acquire at a more rapid rate than I shed, even though I'm not a big shopper.)
Mom did rescue my early 70s acrylic painting of Spotsy—my childhood dog—during the first move. I think this is the only thing I ever painted that didn't involve superheroes or paint-by-numbers.