I always tell y’all how important it is to slow down, reset, and take back control of the chaos. But right now? My chaos is doing push-ups and leveling up like it’s in a video game.
We’re selling our home.
And not just any home — the first home my husband and I ever bought together. The first place that was truly ours.
Before this, we lived in the house my grandparents left me. I’m grateful for that gift, but it never felt like our space. It was “Nana and Papaw’s house.” Every corner held grief. Every room echoed memories that weren’t just ours. It felt wrong to build a life inside a place I was still mourning. So I sold it. Not to erase them, but to save myself.
This home — the one we’re about to leave — is where we finally learned what stability even felt like. Neither of us grew up with much of that. So walking into a place that was ours, with our name on it, our energy in it… that changed us.
And now? We’re listing it on Monday. The photographer is coming. We’re looking at what could be our dream home on Sunday. Everything is moving fast, and my brain is doing cartwheels it did not sign up for.
There’s so much beauty in this house, and I can’t help replaying the moments that built our life here:
The tiny scribbles my babies left on the wall like little time stamps.
The one piece of siding outside that my now-10-year-old tagged with spray paint during his “main character rebellion arc.”
The bush we picked out and planted as our first official “adult” landscaping moment.
The neighbors who became family — the village I never expected to find from complete strangers.
The nights we sat out back, watching our kids play, realizing we were giving them a childhood we never had.
This home held so many versions of us. The struggling version. The learning version. The rebuilding version. The hopeful version. The parents-who-are-winging-it version. Every stage of us lived inside these walls.
And yeah, the vibe here is cozy, chaotic, kid-filled, and real. This is the house where life actually happened.
But now we’re stepping into something new. And that’s where the emotional whiplash lives — excitement sitting right next to grief.
I’m trying to balance everything: packing, selling, buying, switching schools, switching doctors, uprooting our entire routine. And with a special needs kid, the school situation hits the hardest. We’re moving to a town with barely over 300 people. Part of me worries:
Will they understand what my babies need? Will they support them the right way? Will they help them grow?
That fear sits heavy.
But then there’s the future we’re walking toward:
A full acre of land.
Space for four-wheelers.
Room for bonfires without HOA rules breathing down our necks.
A yard where my dog can finally run free — something he’s waited nine years for.
A home where each kid gets their own room and their own space to grow into themselves.
That part makes my chest feel lighter.
And then there’s the kids. I haven’t told them yet. It’s not guilt — it’s a boundary. I don’t want to hype them up and then break their hearts if the deal falls through or the timeline drags out. I want their excitement to hit at the right moment, not simmer into stress.
What’s wild is thinking back to when we first bought this house. We were so proud. We drove by every few days before closing, parked outside, and talked about the life we were about to build here. We dreamed about everything we wanted for our kids — stability, safety, a place that finally felt like “us.”
And we did that. For six years, we did that.
Now we’re doing the bravest thing you can do after building something solid: we’re letting go so we can grow again.
This is the messy middle.
The part where you pack up rooms that hold memories you can’t replace.
The part where you grieve what you’re losing while reaching for what you want.
The part where chaos teaches you — again — just how capable you really are.
We’re stepping into a new season. It’s overwhelming, emotional, and honestly kind of beautiful. And even if the chaos is louder than usual, it’s still ours to navigate.
And we will.
And look — I can already hear the people who’ve lived in their homes for 15, 20, 30 years clutching their pearls like, “Six years? That’s it?”
Yeah. Six years. But when your life has been chaos-coded from day one, six years under the same roof feels like we basically lived here for three generations. My walls have seen stuff.
So if you’re a seasoned homeowner shaking your head… just let me have this dramatic moment. I earned it.
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