Without the beam dividing the area, the main living space flows into the kitchen. Light stretches uninterrupted from wall to wall. The whole house feels... bigger. Brighter. My window seat now anchors a unified space instead of being boxed off behind a visual barrier.
“It’s better,” Owen says, surveying the space. “The proportions work now.”
“It’s not just better—it’s transformed,” I say, stepping into the place where the beam used to stand. “The sightlines, the light, the openness... this is what I pictured.”
Owen nods, and I catch the faintest flicker of appreciation on his face. “You were right to question it.”
The acknowledgment lands gently, but solidly. “We were right to check before taking it out,” I say, offering the credit back. “Team effort.”
He almost smiles—tension from yesterday completely gone. We stand side by side in the open space, both soaking in the change.
“It’s strange,” I murmur, looking down at the beam on the floor. “It seemed so necessary. But it was just... there. Taking up space. Dividing things that wanted to be connected.”
“Not all support is structural,” Owen says quietly. “Some things look like they’re holding everything together, but they’re just in the way.”
I glance at him, surprised. “Exactly. And you don’t know until you stop and ask. Until you’re brave enough to question what’s really necessary—and what’s just history.”
He meets my gaze, and for a second, it feels like we’re speaking two languages at once—construction and something else entirely. Then he turns back to the tools.
“We should clean up before the drywall team gets here.”
“Yeah,” I agree, grabbing a broom.
We move together through the dust, clearing out the mess, making room for what comes next. The beam is gone, and thespace feels whole—finally. And I can’t help wondering what other invisible weight I’ve been carrying, mistaking it for strength.
Maybe letting go is the real support I’ve been needing all along.
I’m staringat my phone screen, the cursor blinking at the end of a caption I’ve written and rewritten seven times. The latest version reads:
Three weeks into our accelerated timeline and The Sequin Shack is starting to feel like an actual home, not just a renovation disaster. The window seat (my non-negotiable design element that nearly caused a contractor rebellion) is almost finished, and I catch myself imagining mornings with coffee there, watching the seasons change through glass instead of plastic sheeting. Funny how a place you buy on drunken impulse can start to feel like somewhere you belong.
Updates from The Sequin Shack, where tiny house, huge feelings is becoming less hashtag and more reality.
#ThisLoveIsUnderConstruction #TheSequinShack #EmbraceTheGlitter
My thumb hovers over “share,” suddenly hesitant. The caption feels different—less sarcastic commentary, more... genuine vulnerability. I’ve built a following of nearly 75,000 people with a blend of renovation chaos and self-deprecating humor. This post has neither. It has something I’ve carefully avoided both online and in real life: emotional honesty about putting down roots.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit share and set the phone down like it might bite me. The post attaches to a carousel of progress photos—the window seat with its freshly trimmed edges, the open-conceptmain space where we removed the beam, the kitchen with its partially installed cabinets. Real progress. Tangible. Visible. Almost enough to believe we’ll actually meet the six-week TV deadline.
My phone immediately starts pinging. I ignore it, focusing instead on my laptop and the ever-evolving construction schedule. We’re three weeks in, three weeks out. Somehow, despite the chaos, we’re on track—a minor miracle given how many moving pieces we’re juggling.
Ten minutes pass. Then curiosity wins.
I glance at my phone and find hundreds of likes and dozens of comments:
@HomeSweetTinyHome:The window seat is EVERYTHING! I can totally picture you there with coffee and a book on rainy mornings.
@RenovationNewbie:Your journey is so inspiring! I bought my fixer-upper on purpose and still have more regrets than you seem to have with your drunk auction purchase lol
@TinyLivingBig:“Somewhere you belong” I’m not crying, you’re crying.
@DIYDisasterQueen:The transformation is incredible! But more importantly, I’m loving the transformation in YOUR captions. From “what have I done?!” to “this is home”
That last one catches me off guard. Has my voice changed that much?
I scroll through older posts and... yeah. It’s obvious. The early ones were all sarcasm and panic. Now? Still some humor, sure. But also something I hadn’t intended to reveal: attachment. Hope. Maybe even the faint outline of belonging.
My phone buzzes. Abby.
