This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
What Chapter Are You…
Leaving:
The “toxic career” chapter.
In:
The chapter of rediscovery and reinvention.
Entering:
The chapter of re-becoming; reclaiming my core qualities, prioritizing health
It’s a quiet Saturday morning in late June. I’ve been pacing my living room in the subdivision Colonial that my husband and I call home, holding a small, colorful abstract enamel in my hands. It is one of the pieces from my grandmother’s collection, and I’ve been trying to find the right place for it for years.
“It doesn’t fit in here,” my husband observes as he walks through the room to the kitchen, teacup in hand. He knows I wish it would. My hands tighten. It feels like he told me I’m the thing that doesn’t fit. I know he doesn’t mean that. He’s just being objective.
I inspect the room and see what he means. Dark mahogany tables, damask upholstery, a natural oak railing. Heavy drapes that feel incompatible with the freeform modern impressionist paintings I inherited from my grandmother. Those paintings are a glimmer of the adventurous, nonconformist Wendy that I once was. That I yearn to be again. The space feels closed in, even with sunshine streaming through the window behind me. It’s a nice house. Comfortable. But can it become what I hunger for? No. There is too much of what I’m not in these walls.
I put the art down, flop onto the couch, and pick up my phone, absently scrolling real estate listings in central Bucks County, Pennsylvania. It’s semi-rural, with small, vibrant downtown communities. We’ve already found a realtor there and have looked at a smattering of homes over the past year. Two houses have come close, but not close enough.
It had been two years since the pandemic pushed my office onto Zoom, opening a door I had never expected: the possibility of reshaping my life. I had decided to retire, though I had not yet settled on the exact timing. For two years, that possibility had been quietly percolating. Now, as I scrolled, it felt less like a dream and more like a plan.
For some reason, today the search feels urgent. Scroll, eliminate. Scroll, eliminate. Then I see a photo that seizes my attention. Like the art on my walls, the house is contemporary. It awakens something in me from childhood, when music, freedom, and raw nature surrounded me at my grandmother’s house in Woodstock. Something I’d been subconsciously craving for decades.
The photos of the exterior bring a smile to my face, relaxing me, igniting my senses. I can smell the freshly mown hay, the scent of damp earth and cows in the rain. A majestic weeping beech tree, hundreds of years old, drapes its branches in a place of honor out front. The planting beds are prepared, awaiting daffodils and peony bushes.
I call my husband over and we pull up the listing on his iPad. Barely breathing, I whisper, “This is it.”
He squints at the screen. “You love it?” His tone is not excited so much as mildly alarmed. He has always insisted we buy a house on rational merits and fall in love later—square footage, school district. Utilities first, feelings last.
“Well,” he says slowly, scrolling down to the specs, “no public utilities. That means they’re our responsibility. The maintenance could be… a lot.”
The familiar pinch of disappointment lands. I think of Virginia Woolf’s room of one’s own, and how this house, our current house, never became mine. Too much compromise, too much sense, not enough soul.
“We’ll look,” he finally concedes, “but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
I nod but hold onto the belief that I’ve finally found something rare. We make the appointment for the next day.
I’m cautious. Will the house welcome me? Will it murmur its rightness as we walk through? Is Curly Hill really a hill? Is it winding? Or will there be something too hard to live with or change, something my husband and I can’t compromise on?
We drive through preserved farmland, dotted with small roadside stands bursting with seasonal fruits and vegetables. When we arrive, I witness a dream coming true. Along the front walk, the gurgling of a small waterfall flowing into an artificial pond serenades us, three enormous koi swimming peacefully. Upon entering the house, I’m struck by the glow of light pouring through a wall of windows facing south. That light. It’s reflected in the hardwood floors, radiating with shades of deep red, flaming orange, and gold. It’s as if the house itself emanates light and warmth, saying, “Welcome home, Wendy.” My eyes burn with unshed tears of joy.
I flip my internal switch back to rational, by force of habit, as I spy the kitchen at one end of a large room that also houses a wood-burning stone fireplace and the dining area. Cooking, for me, is a creative activity and one that I imbue with love. I see hearty stews and soups, cookies and pies, gatherings of friends and family. I see grandchildren who might one day toast marshmallows in the fireplace. Flowers on the table, cut from my native pollinator garden. The walls exude that ineffable feeling of home.
The main bedroom is brimming with more light and air, bursting with panoramic views across multiple meadows and homes. Views that take my breath away. Yet, in true Wendy fashion, I keep waiting for disappointment.
What comes instead is the thing I’ve waited for my entire life. The room of my own. Complete with a vaulted ceiling and large arched window. A perfect place to nurture my ideas, my writing, my soul. I could even tolerate a Zoom staff meeting in this room.
It’s a close call when my husband starts in with objections: no public utilities (again!), the cost of basic upkeep like mowing and snow removal. In the past, I would have just given in, avoiding conflict at any cost. But this is too important.
“I need this,” I say, calmly advocating for myself.
He stops talking, looking directly at me, his thoughts racing across his face. My happiness versus his logic.
“Okay. We’ll figure it out together,” he replies.
I exhale, relaxing. We’re at our best when we work as a team.
Then, like filling a balloon, I feel gratitude swelling in my chest. It starts slowly at first and then expands completely, soul-deep. My role as the workhorse employee, the family’s financial and emotional backbone, can finally be placed on the shelf, making room for the creative, artistic self I had put away so long ago. This place, this time, this reset is for me.
Allowing my imagination to direct my future didn’t happen in a single leap. It came through tiny shifts, through learning to trust and advocate for myself. Now, I let this single question guide me: What do I need to be healthy in mind, body, and soul?
Most days, the answer is simple. I look out the Palladian window, through the branches of that ancient weeping beech I cherish, to the pasture across the street, where cows nap in the sun. My reset is a journey home to myself. A life shaped by my own needs. A room of my own.
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What a beautiful essay, Wendy. All of my senses were evoked, and my heart wanted you to have a room of your own with THAT view. The line that stopped me cold was: There is too much of what I’m not in these walls.
Damn.
What a sobering realization. I’m glad you honored the calling. It inspires me to keep stepping up to mine.
It reads even more beautifully on the page than how beautifully you read it to me. This is such a wonderful story on so many levels Wendy!