When the walls whisper

We built our first “forever” home with four kids in mind and a whole lot of optimism. It was over 4,000 square feet of suburban strategy: four bedrooms upstairs (one for each child, because we were fair like that), a sprawling playroom for Nerf wars and Minecraft marathons, and two bathrooms—one for boys, one for girls, because peace is priceless.

The house sat in a cul-de-sac so packed with scooters, sidewalk chalk, and bev-happy parents that it felt like a sitcom set. We could walk to every school in the district, and walk they did—sometimes in pajamas, sometimes in tears, always with a gaggle of kids headed in the same direction.

It was the kind of house that made perfect sense. Until it didn’t.

As the boys graduated and launched into their own adventures, the house began to echo. We had one kid left at home and a whole lot of square footage whispering, “You don’t need all this anymore.” 

The pandemic hit, and like many people, we started reevaluating everything—space, pace, priorities. Property values were climbing like ivy on a brick wall, and we thought, Why not try downsizing? (Spoiler: we didn’t stop there.)

So we built again. A beautiful home in a master-planned community, 2,600 square feet of curated comfort. It was farther out, but Austin kept creeping closer, like a party guest who doesn’t know when to leave. Rob built a closet so stunning it could’ve had its own Instagram account. I tucked herbs and flowers into every sunlit corner I could find.

Would you trade this...

We called it our “empty nester,” and in many ways, it was. But it was never our forever.

The house was lovely, filled with all the beauty I could afford, but the dream only grew louder.

We wanted land. Space. A place where the dogs could run without HOA bylaws dictating their joy. A place where we could grow things—flowers, food, and especially roots. Our new home was gorgeous, yes, but we could practically reach out the window and high-five our neighbor. It felt like living in a very stylish shoebox.

So we kept dreaming. Late-night conversations turned into sketches, Pinterest boards, and long walks through the claustrophobic community. We talked about soil and silence, about stars you could actually see, about building something that felt like us. And when Duckie, our youngest, graduated from high school and thrived in college, we looked at each other and said, “It’s now or never.”

Selling the house was its own emotional rollercoaster. We thought it would fly off the market—after all, it was beautiful, thoughtfully designed, and nestled in a neighborhood that practically sold itself. But three months passed, and the silence was deafening.

Every showing felt like a first date: hopeful, exhausting, and occasionally bizarre. We staged, we scrubbed, we lit candles like we were summoning a buyer from the ether.

Eventually, someone bit. And while we did make money on the sale, it wasn’t the windfall we’d hoped for.

The buyers have no idea what they walked away with—a home built with heart, sweat, and more late-night design debates than we care to admit. They got a steal. We got closure. And maybe that was the real win.

...for this?

Next up: Trading drywall for wheels.

After selling the house (finally), we didn’t just downsize—we dove headfirst into the deep end of reinvention. Our next chapter begins in an RV, where every spoon has a story, the dogs have claimed their thrones, and the dream of land feels closer than ever. It’s tight quarters, big feelings, and a whole lot of learning. Come along as we figure out how to live small… and dream big.