The Middle of the Dream

We had romanticized Lake Palestine into a postcard—our perfect little spot by the water.

What we forgot was that mosquitoes don’t care about dreams. Between a still-healing pup, less-than-ideal weather, and unusually busy work weeks, we spent more time indoors than out. And with that came thinking. Too much thinking, perhaps.

A flicker of doubt crept in—something close to buyer’s remorse. It started when Rob’s best friend asked, “Aren’t you two a little too old to be taking this on?” I won’t lie—it gave us pause. It’s still giving us pause. Because the truth is, we are taking on a lot.

We’ve built homes before, but always in master-planned communities where the hard decisions were already made. This time, we are the general contractors. Every choice, every responsibility, every detail will fall to us. It’s impossibly exciting—and undeniably terrifying.

And then there’s the land. We’ve never owned more than a residential lot, and now we have acreage so vast we could sandwich our entire old neighborhood onto it. Wildlife management will become part of our daily “to-do” list, something brand new to us.

Thankfully, Texas A&M offers a 12-week course for new landowners beginning in January, and I’ll be taking it. That should help tremendously.

So yes—it’s a lot. A whole lot. But it’s also what we’ve dreamed of for years. And until now, I haven’t really shared the why.

For Rob, the dream is about legacy and roots. He wants to build something lasting, something special to pass on to the kids. A way to spend his golden years that feels more productive than washing garbage bins and watching college football.

For me, it’s about reclamation.

Getting diagnosed with lupus was a slog. Five years of symptoms before anyone could name them, and another five years before treatment began to work. In that time, I watched everything I loved—my career, my hobbies, the way I spent time with loved ones—slip away. Chronic illness does that. It strips you down, forces you to adjust to a slower, smaller life when you’ve always lived fast and with purpose.

When treatment finally began to help, I dipped my toes into new things. I needed something that would let me be outdoors, gently physical, and deeply engaged. Enter gardening.

I started with herbs, thrilled to add fresh flavors to our dinners. Then lettuces, crisp and clean. I began to fantasize about growing all our food, convinced I’d feel better if what we ate came straight from our soil (something I still vehemently believe).

But the real magic arrived with my first flower.

Ranunculus corms—difficult to grow, though I didn’t know it then—burst into tight pastel blooms that graced our home for months. They were my gateway drug. From that moment on, bouquets filled our house from October to July. And with each bloom, the dream grew.

Now, I envision a flower farm. Fields of color in every shade, slow days marked by rhythm and ritual, sweet tea on the porch, and bouquets offered to our community—spreading joy the way flowers have offered me a new beginning.

That’s our why. His legacy, my renewal.

We left Tyler on Saturday, eager to be going “home,” and arrived in Austin last night. It isn’t true that you can’t go home again, but after 35 years here, it IS surprising that Austin doesn’t feel like home anymore. We are truly in the middle—between what was and what will be.

Two of our kids came over for dinner last night, and that felt like home. This week will be busy—catching up with friends, relishing time with the kids, celebrating my favorite holiday. I also have three doctor’s visits and a six-week work project kicking off after the holiday. Life is full, messy, magical.

We are not at the beginning or the end, but in the middle—the place where roots take hold and blooms are born.

Next Up: Grateful

Thanksgiving isn’t always a Norman Rockwell painting. Sometimes it’s messy, loud, and a little god‑awful. But even in the chaos, gratitude sneaks in—unexpected, imperfect, and real. My next post is about finding thanks in the middle of it all.