Home*

The last time I wrote here, we weren’t home.

We were in that uncomfortable in-between space where nothing feels permanent. Where routines are temporary, rest never fully lands, and your nervous system stays on high alert because everything might change again tomorrow. Now we’re home. Fully. Technically. Emotionally. Practically.

And being home feels like being home… plus a lot of work.

Housing ended up replacing not just the dining room/studio flooring, which is what I expected, but the entire downstairs and the stairs themselves. That part was a genuine surprise, and honestly, a relief. The downside was that nothing was put back the way it was supposed to be, and during the process they broke over $300 worth of my collectibles. Not replaceable décor, but meaningful pieces. The kind you grieve quietly because you can’t find the collectable again.

So yes. I’m grateful. I’m relieved. I’m exhausted. I’m frustrated. All at once. That’s how most real endings actually feel.

Coming home didn’t feel cinematic. It felt like stepping into a familiar space that didn’t quite recognize us yet. Furniture shifted. Systems disrupted. Things missing. Other things broken. What made it feel real again wasn’t a big moment, just the absence of uncertainty. Not wondering how long we’d be gone. Not living out of contingency plans. Being able to exist without bracing for the next disruption.

“Home” doesn’t mean finished. It just means rebuilding somewhere familiar.

From December 12th through the 17th, my mom came to visit. I didn’t realize how deeply I needed that until she arrived.

When she got here, the hotel door was slightly ajar. I was live streaming at the time. She simply walked in. No announcement. No buildup. Elle and I stopped mid-sentence, jumped up, and hugged her. We all cried. It was one of those moments that feels unreal until you’re inside it.

I missed her more than I realized. Having her here made it clear that our falling out is truly behind us. That something important was repaired. Her presence was grounding and comforting in a way that didn’t require conversation or explanation. Just being together again mattered.

While all of this was happening, I finished a cardigan.

A lace-weight cardigan, because apparently I enjoy testing my own patience.

I don’t have a deep philosophical reason for choosing lace weight. I wanted to work with it. I saw a cardigan pattern and thought, “I should make my own.” I started by following an existing pattern, but it didn’t give me the front coverage I needed, so I added front panels. I skipped the intricate border and finished the edges with simple single crochet, because I knew I’d never wear it otherwise. Then I realized I’d never wear a short-sleeved cardigan, so I added sleeves.

At one point, before the panels were added, it didn’t fit. That almost made me quit. Lace weight doesn’t reward frustration. It just waits in a closet while you refuse to crochet anything at all.

I started this cardigan on May 26th, working on it alongside other projects. Then I stopped crocheting entirely from August through November. Life happened. The leak happened. Everything paused. When I picked it back up in early November, I finished it on December 3rd while still juggling other work.

Finishing it felt like triumph.

This cardigan holds meaning beyond being a garment. My mom always wore cardigans when I was growing up. I made this piece in memory of several of hers. It carries comfort, patience, and love stitched slowly across a chaotic year.

Now I’m making the same cardigan again, this time for my oldest daughter.

This is a scalability test. She likes the pattern. My youngest doesn’t. She’s a size small, I’m a 3XL, and that range matters. If a crochet cardigan pattern works, it needs to work honestly across sizes. So far, it’s been purely technical. Fit logic. Proportions. Calculations. Proof that the math actually holds.

I’m about 87% confident in this pattern now. Confident enough to trust it. Confident enough to say it’s mine.

As for rest, I’m resting in theory.

In practice, life is mostly back to normal. Working. Creating. Managing projects. The difference is the absence of constant stress. Nothing heavy is still hanging over us, and that alone makes everything feel lighter.

This entire experience reinforced a lesson I already knew but apparently needed repeated: nothing meaningful happens overnight. Not repairs. Not healing. Not creative work. Not relationships. Patience isn’t passive. It’s endurance.

If someone had told me a month ago that this is where I’d be now, I might not have believed them. Or I would have assumed it came with more closure than it did. Real life rarely wraps itself neatly.

What I’m quietly proud of is that I didn’t stop. I paused when I needed to. I adapted. I kept building anyway.

Right now feels grounded. Not dramatic. Not euphoric. Just steady.

Next comes The Alchemy of Her. Next come Soul Sessions. This isn’t an ending. It’s a continuation, built from a place that finally feels solid enough to stand on.

And after everything, that’s enough.

A video showing the new flooring of the downstairs of an apartment.