Becoming: The Second Story

The Second Story began as a personal reset—a quiet reclamation of life after everything I thought I knew shifted beneath my feet.

Here I was, mid-life, holding nothing but a blank slate and wondering how the hell I'd gotten here. The sprawling family home where I'd built one version of myself was gone, replaced by a little house that fit in my palm like a secret. This smaller space wasn't just downsizing after my divorce—it became my teacher, asking me to slow down, strip away what didn't serve, and remember what actually makes a life worth living.

This home cradles the story of becoming.

Of learning that who we are isn't carved in stone. That love can bloom and wither in the space between one heartbeat and the next. That the person I thought I was had been living in a box far too small, and when I finally opened the lid, there was so much more room to breathe.

Some parts of me feel familiar—weathered and wise, like an old sweater that still fits just right. But others? They're tender as new growth pushing through concrete, surprising me with their persistence.

There have been disasters: paint on the hardwood, cabinet doors hanging by a thread, tears over things that shouldn't matter but somehow do. But there's been magic too—afternoons when creativity flows like water, evenings when I catch myself smiling at nothing, moments when all the scattered pieces of who I'm becoming click into place.

This blog is where I gather those fragments. Where I make sense of the mess and the beauty of starting over. If you're standing at the threshold of your own second story—or third, or fourth—wondering if it's too late to become someone new, this space is for you.

Come on in. There's room for all of us here.