Back in April, I wrote about listening to my nervous system and walking through the door that got me out of the wrong room — not into the next one. (April Is the Pause That Builds the Beat)
Six months later, I’m still learning what it means to live inside that pause.
On Monday October 20, 2025, my first-floor apartment officially passed its housing conservation inspection — two full weeks before my new tenant (another parrot person!) moves in. For the first time in years, I’ve finished a personal project ahead of schedule and under budget. The work is done. My house is quiet.
And now I have this strange, beautiful in-between: two unplanned weeks in St. Louis before heading back to West Lafayette for the winter — at least until April. Boo and Misha are here with me, my lifelong feathered companions. The air smells like fall. And I’m realizing that rest can finally be restorative when you’ve built a life that can hold it.
What follows is the next part of my earlier story — the autumn companion to my April post.
Rest That Counts
I’m writing this from a quiet, clean house — the kind of clean that’s not about appearances, but about exhale. The kind that hums with, “You did it”.
The first-floor apartment passed inspection last week — early. Two weeks early, actually. My new tenant moves in on November 1st, another parrot person who gets it: no nonstick, no candles, no fumes. A true kindred. I’ve got the occupancy permit framed and filed, the repairs signed off, and a basement that’s 90% organized. And for the first time in years, I’m actually… resting.
Not the performative kind of “self-care” where you’re secretly still thinking about your to-do list. The real kind — the sort that looks like wandering the Botanical Garden for hours, following a suggested Facebook post that leads you to hunting for sparkling “druzy rocks” at Hawks Bluff in Desoto (an hour outside of St. Louis), and spending whole afternoons with Boo and Misha while washing those rocks in the basement.
It’s not escape. It’s restoration.
When I left VentureLab earlier this year, it was on good terms — I just knew I’d outgrown my role. What had once been such a meaningful fit had started to feel too small, and I thought I’d found the right next step. That job turned out to be the door that opened to get me out of the room I was in — not the destination, but the hinge. I only lasted three days before realizing it wasn’t right, and that moment became its own kind of clarity.
It forced me to stop.
And somehow, between leaving, freelancing, and managing this house renovation mostly on my own, I’ve found my way back to strength — both physical and emotional. I’ve been up and down these stairs enough times to count as a cardio plan, carrying boxes, scrubbing trim, and patching what the cleaning crew missed. I’ve moved nearly ten years of my life upstairs, sorted, donated, recycled, and let go. I’ve been doing the kind of work that doesn’t just clear a space — it clears your head.
When Chris had to take care of his mom, and friends had their own lives unraveling, I didn’t spiral. I just did the next thing. Alone. And it felt… fine. Better than fine. Capable.
It’s been half a year now since that spring of upheaval, and I can finally feel how much my system needed this downtime. The kind of rest that’s actually rebuilding something. My boundaries are stronger. My energy’s coming back. Even my curiosity feels alive again.
And yes — the house has tested me. I discovered a few surprises along the way, including some wiring that was done wrong years ago (a cabinet literally came within a millimeter of falling on me). Luckily I was home, and an electrician fixed it before anything sparked. That moment taught me something, though — about both houses and humans: you don’t always know what’s been holding things together until you start making repairs.
Now, I’m in this strange, beautiful in-between. My house is ready early. My next chapter hasn’t started yet. I’m in St. Louis for the rest of October — two weeks of unplanned breathing room before winter takes me back to West Lafayette, Indiana. I’m catching up on client work (Shopify automations, upgraded themes, the nerdy kind of problem-solving that feels like meditation), but also just being here — in my space, with my birds, not rushing the transition.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, my creativity is waking up again. The Birdy Babe channel is moving. Reaching My Dreams is stirring. I’m even thinking of making jewelry from the stones I found at Hawk’s Bluff in DeSoto — proof that joy can come from something as small as washing rocks you picked out yourself.
Fall feels like harvest this year. Spring was all rebirth — endings, new beginnings, emotional excavation. Summer was wild growth. But autumn… autumn is reflection. The part where you look at what’s grown, what’s ripened, what you’re ready to compost.
I used to think growth was all forward motion. Now I know it’s just as much about pausing, pruning, and letting the soil rest.
So yes — the house is ready early. The stair treads are in. The basement is broom swept. The permit’s stamped. The birds are content. And for once, I’m not racing toward the next deadline.
I’m just here.
Resting.
Rooted.
Ready to see what winter asks of me next.
P.S. I keep thinking about doors — the ones that close quietly and the ones you build yourself. This fall marks six months since that first “door” moment in April, when I walked out of one room and into my own rhythm again. Now another door has opened: the next chapter of life based in West Lafayette, Indiana, near Chris and his family — but with my St. Louis apartment still here, upstairs now instead of the freshly remodeled first floor. It’s my home base, my independence, and my soft bird-friendly place to land when we come back to visit the city that’s held me since 2009.
The coaching framework I’ve been developing — born from all these pauses, reflections, and safe-state debriefings — feels like another door too, one that opens inward first. Winter will be the season I start shaping it into something real.
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