We Bought a House
we're building a house and i can't believe its real
My favorite North American songbird is the Indigo Bunting. I eagerly await their return every summer. They’re elusive and quick. I’ve never been able to get them to show up at our bird feeders. They don’t arrive with the first waves of spring migration. It’s usually about the time cicada’s rasping songs fill the sky that I know to start looking for flashes of blue in the tree canopy. Spotting the first one of the summer has become somewhat of a personal touchstone. It tells me: “Summer is really and truly here. You made it through another winter.”
And this year, I heard them at our house, but didn’t see them. I’d be out walking Billie and an Indigo Buntings call would jangle like keys in the pockets of leaves above my head. I’d go still, scanning the tree for any sign of movement. I was rewarded with nothing but the song, as if I was being teased by a good thing just out of reach.
My daughter spotted one for me at park in town, but I wanted to see my Indigo Buntings, the ones who live at our house.
“How would you feel if, fifteen years from now, you and Jonathan are still in the same living situation?”
Nine years ago, our marriage therapist at the time asked me this question. I got angry at him. And then I cried.
We had started therapy while I was in the depths of my second fight with post partum anxiety and depression. My youngest was still breastfeeding and attended many sessions on our laps. My oldest was barely three years old. My husband was gone 16 hours a day at a job that was turning him into a shell of himself. With the help of financial aid, we had scraped together enough money to see a therapist because we could feel our marriage forming cracks that we didn’t want to form into chasms. Our biggest issue? The house we felt trapped lived in.
The house had constant plumbing issues, no central air conditioning1, a furnace that barely worked in the winter, windows we couldn’t open unless there was an emergency and flooring so cheap that it constantly cracked. No dishwasher. A single working bathroom smaller than most closets. A leaking roof. A tiny hot water tank that meant we had to be strategic about when we showered, washed dishes and bathed the babies so we’d have enough for everyone. Spider2 and mice infestations were a constant battle. All of this was overloading and leaving my nervous system in shreds.
When our therapist asked me how I would feel if our living situation didn’t change, I know he was guiding me towards accepting the reality of our situation. At the time, we could barely afford therapy much less a new house—or even renovations on our current house. I could either continue to let my resentment of those facts siphon off my daily energy and peace or I could accept what where we were at and make the best of it. I ended up doing a complicated, up and down, trying-my-best mix of both. Nine years later we were still in this house.
But then June happened.
I’m getting ahead of myself.
Years before June 2026, we bought the land we lived on (and loved) and tolerated living in this house.
If you’d asked me about our living situation since we moved here I would’ve told you, “It not where we live, it’s the house. We love the property!”. And it’s true. The views from our land are the best in county. We sit squarely in a magical spot where we’re within driving distance of three major cities while also able to enjoy the quiet of rural living and low(ish) property taxes. When the opportunity came to buy this lot a few years ago—we were renting it before—it was worth the investment.
We locked in our finances and worked to get ourselves to place mentally and physically where we’d have margin for goals outside of just surviving. Virtually every dollar I made was put into a savings account and we lived day-to-day as if that account didn’t exist.
Acceptance had served us when we had no other options—when depression and generational trauma and chronic health issues made it impossible for us to be anything but a single income family. We became quietly resilient and strong in ways no one will understand but us. And over time, the dark night of it all started to fade into a timid dawn, but we didn’t take that as a promise of a sunrise. We’d faced too many storms that robbed the day of light to believe anything different. So we kept our heads down, bent and broken, and kept working. I can’t even say we kept hoping because it didn’t feel that way. Maybe hope kept us.
Eventually we came to realize that no matter how “accepting” we became of this house, living here was fast becoming truly untenable. Even our small family was outgrowing it. Our son and daughter will need their own rooms. I work from home now and need dedicated space to do that—not just a converted corner of an old bathroom. We needed a place where we could heal. We need a place big enough to host people and let them heal too. We own our property free and clear with no debt. It just needed a house worthy of it, a house that wasn’t holding us back.
And so in June we decided to leap.
Last month we put a down payment on a new house. And not just a new house. A house we’re building here. Writing that sentence doesn’t feel real. Reading it right now doesn’t feel real.
We’re building a new home. We’re building a new home. We’re building a new home.
And while we’re celebrating this milestone, we’re also bracing for the tumultuous transition that comes with it. The new house will go here on the property where the house we’re currently living in sits now. This means we not only have to pack up this house, but we’ll have to live somewhere else while the new one gets built here. We’re both moving and not moving.
At this juncture, we don’t feel like we can’t exhale yet. We still have mountains to cross before we can do that.3 Packing. Living out of state away from Jonathan. Navigating a chronic illness (yes, still). Working full time while moving. I’m sure, when I have capacity, I’ll be writing about it here.
This is something we’ve been working towards since we got married fifteen years ago. This tired, crooked little house was supposed to be a “starter house”. Against all our plans, and with much grief, it became much more than that. I won’t miss this house. I will be grateful for who I became while living in it.
We made the down payment on June 18th. That weekend I was standing in our front yard and saw something azure flit through the trees; as if a corner of the sky had fallen down from the atmosphere and got tangled in the locust tress. My Indigo Buntings were back.
They came home.
I’m writing this while a box fan circulates air into my office because the only place we place an AC unit it the living room on the other end of the house.
My daughter called me into the living room to help her identify and remove a giant spider while I was writing this.
Pray for us, seriously. This last stage to reach our new home will probably be some of the most difficult yet, especially with my ongoing health issue that make everything complex.
Congratulations! Sending love and prayers for this next phase. 💙
Well this was a wonderful thing to read first thing in the morning 😭 I’m so happy for you guys, and I’m praying for you!