Starting Over Without Starting From Zero

I’ve started over more times than I ever expected to.

After a 22-year marriage. After loss. After another relationship ended. After leaving homes I had poured myself into. And now, once again, I’m unpacking boxes and trying to make a place I never imagined living in feel like mine.

But this time I realized something: I’m not actually starting over.

I’m starting from experience.

This episode began with something ridiculously ordinary: pressure washing the front porch of my new place. It’s not glamorous. It’s not my dream home. Quite frankly, it’s a little sketchy. But standing there looking at that cleaner porch made me think about every house I’ve lived in and every version of myself that lived inside them.

The house where I raised my children. The homes that came after my marriage ended. The house I helped make beautiful with another partner. My trailer at Lake Huron, where I finally learned how much I enjoy my own company. And now this little place that represents something completely different.

For years, I thought starting over meant I had somehow ended up back at the beginning.

I don’t believe that anymore.

I know more now. I know what I will tolerate and what I won’t. I know I can support myself. I know I can be alone. I know I can lose people, relationships, homes and versions of my life and still find my way forward.

And maybe that’s what rebuilding really is.

Not creating some impressive new life overnight.

Sometimes rebuilding looks like downsizing. Making the practical decision. Choosing purpose over comfort. Leaving somewhere you love because something else is asking you to grow. Making one little thing better today and another tomorrow.

This week on Life’s a Blog, I’m talking about homes, divorce, grief, relationships, Lake Huron, nostalgia, starting again, and the realization that you can miss a place without wanting the life you lived there back.

Because we don’t start over empty-handed.

We bring every lesson, every scar, every mistake, every boundary and every bit of strength we earned along the way.

This week’s song: “The House That Built Me” by Miranda Lambert.

Transcript

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Cleaning A Porch In A New Place

SPEAKER_00 0:11

Hey everybody, welcome back. So it's been a really interesting couple of weeks, but today, I'll start with today. I was outside pressure washing the front porch of the place I'm living in now. Just got back from the trailer, brought my pressure washer, brought my broom, brought everything I needed. And I'm gonna be really clear before I start romanticizing any of this. It's actually kind of a dump. There, I said it. It's certainly not where I thought I'd be living at this point in my life. It's not some beautiful little apartment where I opened the door and immediately thought, oh my God, this is so me. No, not at all. There are things that need fixing. There are things that make me shake my head. And there have been moments where I've looked around and thought, how in the world did I end up here? And yet today my neighbor and I were outside pressure washing this porch. He's a young fellow, maybe 30 years old. And we got the dirt off, we cleaned things up, we talked, we laughed, we made a connection. And when it was done, I stood there looking at it, and it still wasn't some beautiful front porch from a magazine, far from it, but it looked a lot better. And it felt a lot better. I'm always a person that your entry point is your welcoming area, whether it's the backyard or the front yard, keeping it nice and beautiful actually makes you feel better walking into the place you're getting ready to walk into. And most importantly, it felt a little bit more like mine. At that tiny moment got me thinking about houses and all of them. The houses I've lived in, the houses I've loved, the houses I thought I'd stay in, and the houses I had to leave. The ones I wanted to leave. The ones I absolutely did not want to leave. And the strange thing is, every time I move into somewhere, I do the same thing. I start changing it, I start cleaning it, decorating, moving furniture, making little spaces pretty. You know, I want candles, I want pictures, I want flowers sometimes. I want my things where I can see them. I want people to walk to the door and feel comfortable. I want it to feel like a home. And today I thought, my God, I've been doing this my entire adult life. Building houses, building homes, building lives, and then sometimes watching those lives change completely. So tonight I want to talk about something that I don't think I understood until very recently.

Home Is What We Bring

SPEAKER_00 2:45

Maybe home isn't actually building the home you need. Maybe home is what we bring into it. And maybe all these little houses that I thought I was losing were actually building me. Which brings me to this week's song, The House That Built Me, by Brandon Lambert. There's a line in that song that has stuck with me for years. I know they say you can't go home again. And I've always felt that one because I've gone back in my head a lot. Not necessarily because I wanted the life back, but sometimes you miss a place without wanting the life that existed inside of it. And those two are completely different things. I always I didn't always understand that. You know, there was the house that I thought that was forever. I was married for a long time, and for 22 years, there was one particular house that represented a home to me. 22 years. You don't live somewhere for 22 years without it becoming part of it. And it becoming part of you. And think about your own home right now. Maybe you've been there five years, maybe 10, maybe 30. Think about all the things that happen that nobody takes pictures of. We take pictures of Christmas, we take pictures of birthdays, we take pictures when someone graduates, we take pictures when everybody's dressed nicely and the house is clean. But that's not actually where most of your life happens. Your life happens on a random Wednesday morning when you're standing in the kitchen trying to find someone's missing shoe. It happens when somebody comes home in a bad mood and doesn't want to talk. It happens when your kids are sick. It happens when you're sitting at the table paying bills. It happens when everyone is asleep and you're the only one awake. It happens when there's laughter coming from another room and you stop for a second to listen to it. Those things become the soundtrack of a house. And when you live somewhere for 22 years, you just know it. You know the sound of the stairs, you know the light in the morning, you know where the Christmas tree goes. You know which cupboard everybody opens when they're hungry. You know where everyone sits, you know the marks on the walls. You don't have to turn a light on to walk through that night because your body knows the way. That house held so much of my adult life. It held my marriage, it held my children growing up. It held holidays and arguments and disappointments, happiness, addiction, secrets, and hope. It held years where I genuinely believed I knew what was what the rest of my life was going to look like. And then I learned that you could build something for decades and still have it change. And that realization really broke me. Because when my marriage ended, it wasn't just my marriage that ended. And that's something people don't always understand when they say, Well, you're better off. Maybe. But knowing that doesn't make the dismantling easy. One a long marriage isn't one thing, it's hundreds of things. Your relationship changes, your friendships change, your finances, routines, and holidays change. Even your relationship with your children changes. And unfortunately, the way people look at you changes. Your identity changes. Suddenly you're filling out forms, and there's a different box to check. You go from saying we to realizing you're supposed to say I. And that sounds like such a tiny thing, but it isn't.

The 22-Year House And Divorce

SPEAKER_00 6:32

There's an entire identity inside the world we. And when that disappears, you have to figure out who I is again. I didn't know who she was, not really. I knew who mom was, I knew who wife was. I knew who the woman running around making everybody else okay was, but I didn't necessarily know me. So when I eventually left that house, I wasn't simply leaving an address, I was leaving a version of myself. And I remember playing the house that built me, and at that time I thought the song belonged to that house. I thought that was the house, the house that built me. Where my children grew up, where marriage lived and eventually died after we moved out. The house that contained a thousands ver a thousand versions of who I used to be. I thought that was the story, and I didn't realize there were there'd be more houses, a lot more lessons, and a lot more versions of home. But you know, sometimes you miss the house and not the life. And this is something I I had wished I had understood sooner. You're allowed to miss something without wanting it back, and that is an important distinction in life. I can miss that house, I can remember Christmas mornings and smile, I can remember my kids running around or and remember things that were generally wonderful, and I can remember the person my ex-husband was during the good years, and family dinners and walking to that house knowing where I belonged, but none of that means I would go back. Because if I went back, I wouldn't actually be going back to that moment. Those moments don't exist anymore. Those children aren't little anymore. I'm not that woman anymore. He's gone, my parents are gone. The family structure changed and life moved forward. Even if someone handed me the keys tomorrow, I couldn't walk through that door and enter the life I remember. And that's sometimes what we don't understand about nostalgia. We think we miss the place, we but usually we miss the time. You can buy the old house, you cannot buy the old Tuesday afternoon. You can bring everyone back into the kitchen exactly as they were, but it just doesn't feel the same. You can't make your kids six years old again, and you can't unknow what you know now. You can't return to innocence once life has taught you certain things. And maybe that's why old homes can feel almost sacred. They become containers for time that we can no longer access. And that's what I hear now when I listen to this song. Not I want that house again. Not here, I want to understand the person I was when I lived there. And sometimes I wish I could talk to her. I would tell her so many things. Some of them she wouldn't believe, some of them I wouldn't even want her to know yet. And despite everything, maybe she needed to live it exactly the way she did. But I think I would tell her, you're stronger than you think. I know everyone says that, and right now you probably don't care. But one day you're gonna understand it. You're gonna lose things you thought you couldn't live without. And then you're gonna live and you're gonna make mistakes. Oh, you're gonna make some mistakes. And you're gonna try too hard to make some things work. You're gonna trust people you shouldn't, you're gonna ignore your own instincts sometimes, and you're gonna be angry and you're gonna embarrass yourself. You may just drink too much at times because you don't know what else to do with how you feel. You're gonna grieve people, you're gonna rebuild, and you're you might just start your own business. You're gonna do things you absolutely do not believe you're capable of doing right now. And you're gonna learn that being alone is not the same as being lonely. I would tell all of her that. But I think I would also thank her because she built the foundation. She kept going even when she was exhausted. She loved her family, she tried, she failed at things and she got back up. And all those years in that house gave me pieces of who I am now, and I'm so appreciative of it. And after that came other homes, living with my mom and dad and taking care of them until they passed. And eventually another relationship, another house, another opportunity to build something. And what did I what I did, what I do. I walked in and started making it pretty. And there's some something inside of me that is also compulsive about making a home. I can't help myself. Give me a room. And within an hour, I'm thinking about where things should go. How can we make this warmer? How can we make this more comfortable? What needs to be changed? I noticed details. I want it to feel lived in. And when I was with my ex-partner, I did that too. I poured into the house into creating a feeling, into creating something that felt, you know, settled. And maybe there's a piece of me thinking, okay, here we go. Maybe this is it. Maybe after everything, this is the house where I finally get to put everything down. Maybe I don't have to keep rebuilding. And then that ended too. Suddenly I was looking at another home I had helped make beautiful and realizing I was leaving again. But that one hit differently. Because by that point, there was a part of me that had started questioning the pattern. Why do I end up up here? Why am I constantly building homes and leaving them? Is it me? Am I choosing the wrong places, the wrong people? Am I so desperate for that feeling of home that I rush into creating it before I know whether the foundation is actually solid? And you know, those are not easy questions to ask. And, you know, hindsight is 20-20, but I really wish I would have asked those questions before I made the jump. And I think if you're honestly going to tell your story, you have to be willing to ask yourself those questions too. Because I'm not interested in spending the second half of my life pretending I had no part in any of my own decisions. I made choices. Some are great, some are absolutely terrible, some are made because I was afraid or grieving or lonely. Some are made because I thought love could fix things that love cannot fix. Some are made because I wanted stability so bad that I probably mistook the appearance of stability for the real thing. And I think there's lessons in that. A beautiful house is not necessarily a safe home. A beautiful relationship on the outside is not necessarily a healthy one on the inside. A beautifully decorated room cannot fix what isn't working between two people. Believe me, I've tried. You cannot home sense your way out of an emotional problem. Wouldn't that be convenient though? Just buy another pillow or put a nice vase on the table. Maybe the communication problem will just disappear. But it doesn't work. And eventually I had to learn that creating a home around a relationship isn't the same thing as creating security inside of yourself. Because when the relationship disappears, what happens to you? Do you disappear with it? And for a while I really do think I did. I think I was always looking for home in other people.

Nostalgia Without Going Back

SPEAKER_00 14:01

You know, I've I've thought about this a lot. And I wonder if I spent years believing that home was something another person gave me. If somebody chose me, I was home. If there was a house and two people living in it together, I was home. If there was someone to come back to at night, I was home. That was the purpose. To have that person to create the home. The purpose, obviously, your purpose can change. And at one point, where a place that felt like home was your purpose no longer is your purpose anymore. And you know, and it's a very dangerous amount of responsibility to put on another human being because people change, relationships change, people leave, people die, and life happens. And if your entire sense of home exists inside another person, what happens when they aren't there anymore? You become lost, and that's exactly what happened to me more than once. And I don't say that as a dramatic theatrical performance. I think I generally lost my internal address. I knew where I physically lived, but I didn't know where I belonged. And when you don't know where you belong, you sometimes try desperately to create belonging. You attach yourself to people or places and plans. Anything that gives you something solid. But because insert uncertainty is very exhausting, especially after years of chaos. I wanted something that didn't move. What I didn't understand was that I had to become the thing that didn't move. Not literally, God knows I've moved enough, but emotionally, I needed something inside myself that could remain standing even when everything around me changed. And I think that lesson took years. And then there was the trailer, Lake Huron. This beautiful, ridiculous little chapter of my life. I don't think I understood what I was looking for when I went there. In fact, nobody knew I was looking for a trailer. But I you know, I took a look at it, I said, if it feels right, I'm gonna get it. And upon my arrival, I thought, yeah, this feels right. Because I knew financially it made sense. I knew I wanted to cut costs. I knew I was trying to pour everything into living local and build a magazine into something sustainable. There were practical reasons, but then I got there and something happened. I got quiet. I mean truly quiet. There is something about Lake Huron that does that to me. I can sit there and watch at lake forever, or sit by the fire and look at the stars, and just think. And especially around sunset, that's where my thoughts get really deep. You look out at it, and everything you thought was a crisis that morning feels slightly less catastrophic. And you know, when I get down there, the emails can wait, the numbers can wait, the problems are still there, but for a few minutes you remember that the whole world is bigger than the thing you're stressing about. A trailer is my peace place. And the funny thing is, it wasn't some giant luxurious home, it was a trailer. Smaller than almost every place I had lived before, but I felt I feel at home there. And why? There wasn't a man creating that feeling for me this year. There wasn't some perfect family image I was trying to maintain. There wasn't expensive things. There was just me, my surroundings, the lake, my work, my thoughts, and a lot of long time.

The Pattern Of Building And Leaving

SPEAKER_00 18:06

And I started realizing that I actually like my own company. And you know, once you realize that, that's no small thing. Because then you don't need or desire anybody else anymore to make yourself feel safe, feel at home. For someone who spent most of her adult life defining herself through relationships and family and responsibility, it it was a revelation to me. I could have a good day without anybody cre else creating it for me. I could make my coffee, sit outside, work, go down lake, watch sunset, come back, turn my music on, and be okay. No crisis, no searching, no wondering if somebody else was okay with me. I was just peaceful. And I think the trailer taught me that the home I had spent years trying to create with someone else was something I could create for myself. I really honor the last year that I've spent because it has changed me drastically as a person and I've learned to love myself even more. But you know, peace isn't always the same thing as purpose. Here's where life gets complicated because once I found that peace, I didn't want to leave it. Of course I didn't. Why would I? I spent years looking for peace, and I finally found it, and life basically said, Great, now what are you gonna do with it? That wasn't what I had planned. I wanted to keep it, I wanted to stay, I waffled on selling the trailer. I still waffled today because I had such a great weekend, mostly spent by myself, but also interludes with friends and connection. That's because Lake Huron generally makes me happy. It's one of those few places where my whole nervous system seems to say, okay, we're good. But now the magazine is here, and my team is here, and my advertisers are here. The work I'm building requires me to be present. Living local isn't something I can build entirely from two hours away while hoping everyone else runs it. Especially at this stage, I just so need to be involved and be around the people that matter and schedule business meetings and know what's happening in the community. I need to lead. And I started realizing there was a difference between the place that gave me peace and the place that was asking me to grow. And this is really hard because we constantly hear that we choose peace. Protect your peace, go where you feel good, leave anything that disrupts your peace. And yes, that there is truth in all of that, don't get me wrong. But sometimes growth disrupts your peace, and sometimes responsibility does, and sometimes purpose does. Sometimes a thing you desperately want to build requires you to leave the hammock. And that's not nearly as inspirational on Instagram, is it? Protect your peace until the magazine deadline is Wednesday. But that's life. There are seasons where rest is the right decision, and there are seasons where movement is. And figure out which season you're in can be incredibly difficult. The trailer gave me what I needed, but I eventually understood that I couldn't hide there forever just because it felt good. And I used the word hide carefully because I wasn't running away. But I could feel how easy it would be to make my life smaller because small felt safe. And after everything I had lived through, safe was very tempting. But there was still something in me saying, Katrina, you have work to do. And sadly, the right can di right decision can still break your heart. You know, when I left my ex-husband, it broke my heart. When I left my ex-partner, it broke my heart. But I knew they were the right decision. And I think this is something I wish more people would talk about. We act like making the right choice should automatically feel good, but sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the right choice feels awful. Sometimes choosing yourself really hurts. And sometimes leaving the wrong person hurts. And sometimes selling something you love hurts. Sometimes moving closer to your responsibilities feels

Becoming Your Own Safe Place

SPEAKER_00 22:43

worse than staying somewhere beautiful. And you can know something is right and still cry about it. The sadness doesn't prove the decision is wrong. It proves there was something worth grieving. And I think that's a very important lesson to take with you. Because so many of us reverse decisions when they start hurting. We say, well, if this were really right, it would surely I wouldn't feel this bad. Who told us that? Where did that come from? Some of the best decisions I have ever made hurt like hell initially. And some of the worst decisions I've made felt fantastic for the first month. Always going back felt great. But I knew I was going back to. And feelings are important, but feelings are not always instructions. Sometimes they're simply evidence that you're human. And I know leaving Lake Huron is going to hurt like hell. And I will miss it. I'll miss that peaceful version of my day. I'll miss that sense of escape. I also know why I'm here. And now I'm in this little place trying to make it pretty. And this place doesn't look like some triumphant next chapter. No gorgeous home reveal. No, look what I bought. No giant kitchen, no sprawling backyard, just a place. A practical place that's cost-affected, effective. A place that allows me to be close to work. A place that gives me a chance to keep my costs under control while I build my business. And I'm really hoping that's exactly what I need. And rebuilding doesn't always look impressive. This is probably one of the biggest misconceptions about rebuilding your life. People think rebuilding should look like success: a new house, a new relationship, a better car, amazing vacation, or a new body, a huge career. Look at me now, everyone wants to think. But sometimes rebuilding looks like downsizing and admitting you can't afford something right now. Sometimes rebuilding means saying no. It means living somewhere beneath what you imagine for yourself because you're investing in something bigger. Sometimes it means driving the older car, working harder than people realize. Sometimes it means being incredibly uncomfortable while everyone is watching and assuming you must be doing something wrong. There's nothing glamorous about the middle, and I'm very much in the middle. I have a vision for my business, and I know what this magazine can become. I believe in it, and I also know what it costs to build something. There are months where you're investing before you even see the payoff. There are decisions you make that other people might not understand. And there are moments where you wonder whether you're absolutely insane, and then you just keep going. So maybe this apartment isn't a symbol that I've gone backwards. Maybe it's a business decision, a life decision, maybe it's a temporary home serving a very specific person, purpose, and I like to believe that. And really, why should I be ashamed of that? Because isn't because isn't it isn't impressive enough because somebody my age is supposed to have the big finished house? According to whom there is no universal schedule for life. You know, saying the

The Lake Huron Trailer Quiet

SPEAKER_00 26:26

mantra, by this age I should have, by this age I should own, or I should be married, I should have saved. Should is a judgment. You should never include that word in anything you say. Because it's a judgment. You know, no one created a timeline for how things are supposed to be happening in your life. Which brings me back to the porch. Because as I was pressure washing to washing it today, I noticed something in myself. I cared. And initially I thought, why? This isn't my home. It's a rental, it's temporary. Why do I care what this porch looks like? And then I realized because I live here, I spend time here right now, and that is enough. I don't need to know whether I will be here for a year, two years, or five years to take pride in where I am today. I don't have to wait for the perfect house before I create a home, and that's something I've done my whole life. And maybe there's already actually something beautiful about it. Wherever I land, I put something into it. I try to leave things better. I make it feel warmer, I make it mine. And today, standing beside a neighbor and blasting years of dirt off that porch, I saw that woman again. The woman who walks into something and says, Okay, what can we do with this? And I laugh because that is basically how I approach my entire life. Give me a mess, and eventually I start cleaning it. Sometimes literally, sometimes emotionally, sometimes professionally. Sometimes you create more of the mess first. And let's be fair. But eventually I'm gonna look around and think, okay, this isn't worth working. Let's fix something. I did it after my marriage, I've done it after relationships, I've done it after loss. I'm doing it with my magazine, I'm doing it with this place, and I'm doing it with myself. And you know, who knows? Maybe I am the house. Maybe I've spent all these years thinking about the house that built me from the wrong direction. Maybe I am the house. Maybe life has been renovating me. God, that would explain so much. Some people have walked in my life and made it more beautiful. Some people have knocked holes in walls. Some have stayed a long time, some are only visitors. Some left things behind, and some things some took things with them. Some helped me repair damage they didn't cause. And some people caused damage I had to repair myself. There have been parts of me that I've closed off. Rooms I didn't want anybody walking into. Parts of my story I didn't want to talk about, things I covered up. Things I tried to paint over instead of actually repairing. You know how you can have that water damage on a wall and just paint it. Looks great for a while, and eventually the stain comes back through. That's trauma, that's grief, that's unresolved pain. You can paint it, decorate around it, hang something over it, pretend nobody sees it. But if the source hasn't been dealt with, dealt with, eventually it comes back through the wall. I've done a lot of emotional painting over the years. And I think most of us have. We do it by keeping busy or starting a relationship, taking a trip, drinking, working, scrolling, spend money. Whatever your paintbrush is, anything that keeps you from dealing with what's behind the wall. But eventually you have to fix the leak. And I've been fixing some leaks, some bigger than others. There are parts of my foundation that got shaken. There were times I didn't know what I was going to do next. But hey, I am still here and I'm still standing. I definitely need some renovations. And I'm probably overdo some for some maintenance, but I'm still standing. And maybe that's what resilience actually looks like. Not being untouched, not being perfectly strong, not saying nothing bothers me. I hate that version of strength. The real strength is being affected and still finding a way forward. Of course, it affected me. Of course, my marriage

When Purpose Disrupts Peace

SPEAKER_00 30:56

affected me. Of course, addiction affected me. Of course, losing people affected me, and relationships affected me. Financial pressure and leaving Lake Huron affects me. I'm not trying to become somebody who doesn't care. I want to become somebody who can care deeply without completely losing herself when things change. And that in itself is very different. And that's probably the biggest difference between the woman who first listened to this song years ago and the woman speaking into this microphone tonight. I don't want to go back anymore. I don't want to go back. There was a time I absolutely did. I wanted to go back before the addiction got so bad. I wanted my family back. I wanted the house. I wanted normal. I wanted everyone where they were supposed to be. I wanted to rewind. Then later there were different things I wanted back, different relationships, different versions of life, different houses. And now I don't. I can appreciate them and I can honor them. I can miss pieces of them. But I don't want to go backwards because going backwards would mean giving up everything I learned getting here. And I paid so much for those lessons. You know, emotionally and financially, time, my tears, my sleepless nights, and I'm keeping the lessons I earned them. I can miss that 22-year-old house without wanting to be the woman I was inside again. I can appreciate the beauty I created in another person's home without wishing I still lived there. And I can love Lake Huron without believing I have to stay there forever. And I can live in this less than perfect little place without assuming that I've failed. It's a strategic plan. Rent should be going down, I'm hoping. So I've priced myself out that I'm not kicking myself in a few months' time. And that's freedom. And it's totally not the Instagram kind of freedom, but the real kind of freedom. I think we are obsessed with forever, forever home, forever person, forever friendship, forever job, forever plan. Because it allows us to think we are living our purpose. And if something doesn't last forever, we treat it like it failed. I don't believe that anymore. My marriage did not last forever. It was still real. There were still beautiful things inside of it. There were two children born into that life. There were still years that mattered, but it ended badly. And that doesn't mean every day before the ending was a lie. The trailer might not be part of my forever, but I found there, I found peace that was real. Friendship might only last five years and completely change you. A job might only last two years and introduce you to the person who launches your entire career. Look at me. Duration doesn't always determine value or purpose. Some people are chapters, some places are chapters, some versions of us are chapters. The mistake is assuming every chapter that ends was unsuccessful. A chapter is supposed to end. Otherwise, you never get a book. And apparently, mine has tons of chapters, some of which I absolutely would have edited out if I had been given the opportunity, but then there would be no climax, right? And then I wouldn't be me. I think that is ultimately what this episode is about. Not the houses, the woman walking through them. She has changed a lot, but there is something about her that has stayed incredibly consistent. I build. Sometimes I build things that last. Sometimes I build things that eventually fall apart, and then I build again. For a long time I saw that as a weakness, and why do I have to keep starting over? Now I think maybe that's one of my greatest strengths because I know how. I know how to walk into an empty room and imagine what I could become. I know how to look at a magazine and imagine what it can become. I know how to look at that a terrible year and imagine maybe next year won't look like this. I know how to see potential now. And sometimes, yeah, I see potential or I should probably see a red flag. But I'm getting a lot better at it now. But I'd still rather be someone who believes things can get better than someone who stops building altogether. I am learning to add boundaries to optimism. That's probably the renovation currently underway. But I'm still building.

Rebuilding Without Looking Impressive

SPEAKER_00 36:01

No. Starting over would mean I know nothing. Starting over would put me at the same place I was decades ago, decades ago. I'm not there anymore. I'm I'm starting from experience, and that's a huge difference. I know more now. I know myself better. I have boundaries. I know what I can tolerate and what I won't tolerate. I know the warning signs I ignored in the past. I am capable of supporting myself, and I know I can be alone because I really enjoy it now. I know I can lead. I know I can fall apart and recover. I know a terrible day doesn't mean I have a terrible life. I know not everyone who leaves was meant to stay. And I know that sometimes losing something opens space for something else. And I know that I do not need every person in my life to understand every decision I make. And that one took a while because I stopped asking for opinions. And I do a lot of thinking, doing the pros and cons by myself, because this is my life. So no, I'm not starting over from zero. I'm walking into this next chapter carrying everything I learned in the last ones. And that's not zero, and that's a lot of luggage, and literally emotionally, but it's experience. So what if the house you're in right now isn't the final one? Maybe someone listening tonight is sitting in a place they don't want to be. Maybe you're looking around your house and thinking this was never the plan. Maybe you're going through a separation, maybe you downsized. Maybe you had to move back home, maybe you're in an apartment after owning a house. Maybe your finances change, maybe you really relive relocated for work. Maybe you're sleeping alone for the first time in decades. Maybe the home feels too quiet because your kids moved out. Maybe everything around you around you reminds you of somebody who's gone. Maybe you are embarrassed by where you've landed. And you know what? I understand that feeling. But what if this isn't the destination? What if it's simply the address where you happen to be becoming the next version of yourself? And that's how I'm choosing to look at this place. This isn't the final judgment of my life. It's an address. That's it. And while I'm here, I'm gonna make it mine. I'm gonna keep building my business, I'm gonna make memories. I'm gonna have people over and make coffee in the morning. I'm gonna complain about something that needs repairing, probably repeatedly. I'm gonna laugh and I'm gonna work and I'm gonna decorate. And then someday, when it has done whatever job it's supposed to do my life, maybe I'll leave. My son told me this is the last place I'm moving to, though, so I guess I'll have to hire movers. And if I do, I will take whatever it taught me, just like all the other experiences. So at night, the porch looks better. That's it. Nothing monumental happened. I didn't buy a house, I didn't close a million-dollar business deal. I thought I'm pretty close on a pretty big deal. I didn't suddenly solve every

Renovating The Parts You Hide

SPEAKER_00 39:23

problem in my life. My neighbor and I just cleaned a porch. But sometimes tiny things show you something big. Today reminded me that I still care about making everywhere I am feel like home. Instead of seeing it, that this sad pattern of constantly rebuilding, I'm thinking and going to see it differently. And maybe that's my gift. Maybe home follows me because I'm the one creating it. Maybe I never actually lost a home. I lost houses. But home, maybe home kept moving with me. And I just didn't realize it. It was in the things I packed, it was in the traditions that I kept. It was in my kids and music and writing. It was in my ability to make another coffee the next morning and figure out what came next. It was in every room where I eventually laughed again after believing I never would. It was in that trailer. It was beside St. Your Saint Lake Euron. And now it's here. And it's an imperfect, slightly sketchy place with a much cleaner porch than it had this morning. So when I listened to the house I built me, I don't see one house anymore. I see all of them. I see where I raised my family, the places I lived after my marriage ended, the house I made with another partner, the place I had to leave. Potentially the trailer, this apartment, every front door, every kitchen, every bedroom where I stared at the ceiling wondering what came next. Every house built something in me. One taught me family, one taught me laws. One taught me how much I was willing to sacrifice to belong. One taught me that I would never accept again. One taught me peace, and maybe this is going to teach me that home doesn't have to look impressive to be useful. Maybe it's just going to teach me humility and patience and discipline. I don't know, and that's okay. For once, I don't need to know how the story ends before I'm willing to live the chapter. And that too is new for me. I used to think home was somewhere where you arrived. Now I think it might be something you carry. Used to frustrate me. I just want to feel at home. And if I could speak to every version myself who is packing another box and feeling like she failed again, I would tell her this. You're not homeless. You're not back at the beginning, you're moving, and there's a difference. Take what mattered, leave what hurt you, learn what you can. And when you get that next place, unpack. Put up your pictures, make the bed, make it beautiful. And if the porch is fills sleep, apparently you pressure wash the damn thing. Then you stand back, look at it, and say, okay, this is a little bit better. Because that's all rebuilt that's all that rebuilding is, making one thing a little better than it was yesterday. Then another. Then another. Until one day without realizing it, it happened. You looked around and you're you're home again. And for the first time in a long time, I don't think I need the house to tell me who I am. I know who lives here. And she's gonna be okay. Actually,

Take Home With You

SPEAKER_00 42:42

I think she's going to build something pretty incredible from here. So for my listeners, instead of thinking about one house, think about all of yours. Ask yourself what each one gave you, because maybe you didn't leave the house, those houses empty-handed. Maybe every single one sent a piece of you forward. And maybe the next time you close the front door behind you, you'll understand you aren't leaving home behind. You're taking the best parts with you. And wherever you land next, you'll build again.