Estimated read time: 4 minutes
As we come to the end of 2025, that week of limbo between Christmas and New Year’s, I pause and reflect not only on the year nearly past, but on the four (FOUR!?) years since we sold A Butler’s Manor and moved to Connecticut. We are coming to the end of the Year of the Snake in the Chinese Lunar calendar, which asks us to shed what no longer fits, to slow down, to listen beneath what is noise or habit, to understand why change is necessary, and prepare for the momentum of the next lunar Year of the Horse.
Retirement, selling a home of many years, moving to a new area–all of these individually are milestones that require some measure of adaptation, uncertainty, and grief. I’m not sure that I grieve the life I inhabited, but I am learning that within that life, there were things that no longer serve my present and future self. My quest, then, becomes to address the uncertainty of how I go forward into this new world.
The gift of this new chapter of life is how I’m growing into me — not the version shaped by deadlines or glowing reviews, the version where I turned myself inside out to keep everything tidy and perfect, or worried about the thousand tiny social niceties that once felt necessary. My journey is a road to fully inhabiting my life in the present — not rushing toward something “next,” not trying to cram every moment with productivity, but simply being here, trying to breathe, quietly delighted by small wonders. To experience every day like a gentle unfolding, rather than a race toward completion.
Letting go hasn’t been instantaneous, and it certainly hasn’t been without bumps in the road. I still notice the old reflex to be a people-pleaser — that soft, insistent voice that blurs the line between kindness and self-erasure, between genuine warmth and something you have to perform rather than feel. I see, too, the urge to curate every corner of my space, as though a perfect tableau somehow protects my sense of self. Those habits once served me well — they were part of the toolkit I carried through decades of hospitality, welcoming guests, prepping rooms and meals, and tuning every detail until it was tidy and perfect. In My Words
But I’m learning something subtle yet profound: The world doesn’t require my perfection. My moments of grace come when I stop trying to control every surface, every interaction, every perception. I’m still a creative at heart, but what I’m making now is rooted in presence rather than performance. Unfinished edges, the marks left by daily living, and the sound of laughter lingering in the rooms — these are what make this place feel like home, and feel like us.
We’ve decided that we are no longer postponing dreams until “someday.” For years, in previous homes, we catalogued projects and shelved them with the unspoken agreement that we’d get around to them later, after some milestone, after a season, after… something. Here, we’ve leapt into making this property uniquely ours from the start. We’ve walked rooms and garden paths and said, “yes — this should stay,” or “no — this should become something new.” In the past three years, we’ve repainted the entire interior of the house, dug and planted gardens, added trees, cleared 150’+ of overgrown shrubery to create a full view of the pond, retiled a bathroom, completely remodeled the kitchen, built a butler’s pantry, updated the great room and dining room, insulated and added windows to create a woodworking workshop in the barn, installed a brick patio, and many more smaller projects. We’re not waiting years to instigate the projects that call to us; instead, we’re doing the work we can now because we can now, and because there’s a fundamental joy in doing. In My Words
The focus isn’t on perfection — it’s on expression. On delight. On the slow and rewarding work of shaping a place that tells our story.
At times, I have to remind myself that beauty doesn’t need to be pristine to be profound. Loose threads, imperfect lines, mismatched furniture — these don’t diminish the story; they enrich it. And with that reminder comes a liberating truth: letting go of what no longer serves isn’t about erasing the past — it’s about welcoming the present with open hands.
And oh, what a present this is.
So here’s to projects both literal and internal: the kind that involve tools and tile, and the kind that ask me to grow and let go. Begun with excitement and sustained with intention. To landscapes that change with the seasons and rooms that hold memories instead of judgments. To the peace that comes when I stop trying to perform and please, and start simply being and becoming.
Not perfect. Not finished. A work in progress, enjoying the process.
In My Words 