Sitting here in 6F on a quick day trip to meet with a customer, I’m reflecting on the past 10 days.

Sunday night, I was running on fumes and ibuprofen, staring at a to-do list that may or may not have included “burn it all down and start over.” In other words: absolutely not ready to list the house.

Monday laughed in my face. I dove into the week knee-deep in high-stakes business meetings, only to escape early so I could sit in the bathtub, the hall bathtub, mind you, debating a new fixture with my tile guy, negotiating with a plumber, and casually questioning my entire career path.

Still, I kept telling myself: There is no way this place will be photo-ready by Wednesday morning.

Spoiler: It was.

Fast forward four days, crews of contractors and friends coming and going, a few emotional breakdowns and suddenly, this battered little fortress looked like a palace fit for a queen. Which, as it happens, I like to think I am.

Apparently, the world agrees, I couldn’t keep up with the showing requests. I didn’t even have time to be sentimental. Or maybe sheer exhaustion became my emotional armor. Either way, it’s happening: the house that saw the rise and fall of a marriage is now the stage for something new.

And deeper still, beneath the chaos, coffee, and bruises, I’ve realized this house, in all its newly polished glory, is a reflection of what I gave to my marriage for the last 28 years.

Every wall painted, every drawer cleaned, every frantic decision made at 9:47 PM is proof that I showed up. I gave it my all. And now, I’m giving myself permission to do the same – for me.

Days after the photos were taken, I’m sneaking around town, hiding out with my dog like we’re fugitives, lounging in neighbors’ backyards, collecting pup cups, and trying to stay out of the way while the house gets shown hour by hour.

But somewhere in between the Starbucks runs and the “don’t walk on the carpet” talks with the dog, I’ve started letting myself dream.

About where I’ll go next.

What city might match this version of me, the woman who now knows how to manage a full-time job, a leaking faucet, and a stager’s checklist all in the same breath.

Five days on the market and the house has officially become the hottest ticket in our little community.

It’s been a revolving door of potential buyers, all wandering through like it’s a museum exhibit titled “One Woman’s Attempt at Sanity and Scandinavian Minimalism.”

Between keeping the house showroom-ready and juggling a job that refuses to pause for personal growth, I’ve become a master of the last-minute vacuum sprint and emotionally detaching from throw pillows. My dog now looks at me like, “Are we living here, or just passing through?” Valid question.

Last night, we sat down with our realtor, who, by the way, now knows more about my emotional triggers than my therapist, and reviewed all the offers. Not just a couple. All the offers.

I should feel triumphant, right? And part of me does. But mostly, I’m sitting with this odd cocktail of disbelief, exhaustion, and something that tastes a lot like grief, with a splash of gratitude.

Because as much as this is about selling a house, it’s really about saying goodbye to the life I built here.

Lately, I’ve found myself walking from room to room, day by day, taking it all in like I’m seeing it for the first time. The way the sun pours into the living room in the afternoon. The way sun dances through the trees lining the backyard in the mornings and as the days wrap up. The little details I had stopped noticing.

And suddenly, I realize… I do have a beautiful home.

Somewhere along the way, between the heartbreak, the fixing, the holding-it-all-together, I forgot to look up and see it. I was too busy surviving to admire the life I’d created within these walls.

Now that I’m standing at the edge of letting it go, it’s starting to hit me. And while I haven’t cried much over the past two years, I’ve shed some tears lately. Quiet ones. Honest ones. Not because I regret the decision, but because leaving something meaningful, even when it’s time, is still hard.

There are big changes ahead. And yes, I sometimes wonder if I can do this.

But then I remember: I already have.

Two years ago, I was untangling myself from a life that no longer fit. I didn’t know what the future would look like, or who I’d be on the other side of it.

Now, I look around at this home I’ve transformed. At this life I’ve held together while working full-time, managing relationships, negotiating with contractors, designing spaces, and mending my own heart, and I know the truth:

I can do this.

So here I am again, flirting with my future. This time with offers in hand, a few more tears in my eyes, but also a quiet strength I didn’t have before.

The girl who once said, “There’s no way we’ll be ready,” is now standing in a home she loved, ready to let it go… and step into whatever comes next.

And maybe… just maybe… I am ready.