A House in Transition

There’s something incredibly tender about watching a home change hands.

Today the upstairs is being painted.

My things are packed into a U-Haul.

And my daughter — with her cousin beside her — is brushing color onto the walls that used to hold my life.

It’s no longer my space.

It’s becoming her sanctuary.

Twelve years ago, this house was a dream my dad helped me make real. He walked beside me through the process of buying it — encouraging me, supporting me, helping me believe it was possible. My mom and my stepdad poured their time, energy, and love into this place too. We all did. This house was built not just with money and labor, but with care, family, and intention.

And now that same house is becoming the place where my daughter gets to grow into herself as a young adult.

That fills me with a deep, quiet joy.

What used to be my bedroom, my quiet place, my thinking place… is being transformed into a retreat for a young woman who is stepping into her own chapter. And instead of feeling sad about it, I feel peaceful. Like the house itself is exhaling and saying, yes — this is right.

This season is full of endings and beginnings layered on top of each other.

I’m moving into something new.

She’s rooting into something new.

And the house is the bridge between us.

Watching her paint the walls feels symbolic — like she’s not just changing a room, she’s claiming her place in the world. Making space for who she’s becoming, while I make space for who I’m becoming next.

There’s gratitude in this. And tenderness. And a lot of love folded into the middle of it all.

Homes aren’t just structures — they’re containers for phases of life.

And this one is being lovingly passed from one generation to the next, brushstroke by brushstroke. ❤️