It’s the middle of May, and our six-month-long home remodel is finally winding down. The punch list is extensive, but at least it’s a defined universe. It was a miserable process, as most remodels are, but it had its hilarious moments, as well. My husband and I were essentially confined to our master suite, with occasional nighttime forays to the garage to microwave frozen dinners.
My vision for this home, and my commitment to it, was inextricably tied to the remodel: opening up the main floor, creating an expansive new kitchen, adding new windows, and installing warm and inviting oak hardwood floors. We relished the thought of heated tile floors in the gorgeous new bathroom, a tankless hot water system, a new furnace, and a laundry room that was lovely enough to host a tea party in.
As the weeks wound down towards project culmination, I wandered through the kitchen, tracing designs in the natural stone island, gawking at the voluminous shelving and drawers, and marveling at how perfectly the white kitchen cabinetry enhanced our art pieces. Arriving home after a week-long bike trip in June, I caught my breath as I walked into my house. It was simply stunning: light-filled, spacious, and welcoming.
And it left me completely cold. I viewed it objectively as gorgeous, but from a distance, much like a visitor or a real estate agent might when ascertaining a listing price. I didn’t feel connected to it. I didn’t anticipate hosting parties there. I couldn’t envision holiday gatherings around the massive and congenial kitchen island.
I knew I was in trouble. After a few soul-searching days, I realized that it was not the remodel; it was a culmination of feelings that I had harbored for months. The commute to Seattle was brutal, and I had lost the sense of community that I had loved about my former home. I burst into tears and confessed to my husband that I didn’t want to live here anymore. To his credit, he assured me that if we needed to make a change, we should. I felt embarrassed, ashamed, and perplexed. I loved the peaceful beauty of my surroundings, and I was taken with the warmth and kindness of our neighbors. And yet, it was not enough.
It was emotionally unstable terrain for me: a directional course correction that I never saw coming. But exercise, especially running, stabilized me. The uncertainty ahead of me and the complexity behind me coalesced into the comforting awareness of my capability. I didn’t need to worry whether I could master the hill ahead of me. All that was required was that I take one more step, breathe one more deep breath, and allow effort to eclipse uncertainty.
The way forward on a bumpy, shifting path is always the same: keep your eye on the distant finish line, and move in as straight a line as possible. Each step is a goal unto itself.