I didn’t fully understand this truth until we had moved on from the house that held us during the hardest chapter of our lives. Sometimes it takes a bit of distance, a healed scar, a still morning, the clarity of hindsight, to fully recognize the space that carried you through.
It was a year after heart surgeries and hospital stays, when the nights felt longer than the days and fear became a companion we learned to live beside, not underneath. I remember sitting in my spot on the couch, the L in the sectional facing the fireplace, looking out to the backyard. The house was dim, our street asleep, and a soft light glowed through the patio door. The neighbor’s porch light across the alley offered an unwavering and gentle “you’re not alone.” In that moment, something inside me knew. We were exactly where we were supposed to be. The year before, and again now.
That house wasn’t just a place to live. It was an appointed space. It was exactly what we needed, and where we needed to be, in that season.
Homes do that, if we let them. They carry our weight when we’re too tired to hold it ourselves. They catch our exhaustion, shelter our prayers, and become trusted keepers of all that we endure and all that we celebrate. The walls know the sounds of whispered fears and lullabies sung through tears. The floors remember the cadence of pacing feet and the giggles that broke through the heaviness. And the guest room became a lifeline when help came in the form of casseroles, impromptu hugs, and a quiet “Go, we’ve got this.”
Some homes are appointed, not purchased.
Just like a doctor is appointed to bring healing or a guardian is appointed to offer protection, I believe certain homes are appointed to hold space for what’s coming, whether that is restoration, becoming, or simply being.
They aren’t chosen just because they check the boxes or fit the budget. They are chosen because they are the backdrop for what unfolds next, the setting for milestones not yet experienced.
My journey into real estate didn’t begin with a passion for architecture or interior design. It began the day I realized that home is far more than a structure. It is a system of support, a knowing place to land when life asks more of us than we feel equipped to give.
When our son was diagnosed with a heart condition, the way I saw home changed completely. It was no longer about curb appeal or school ratings or proximity to coffee shops. It became about how close we were to family, so our other kids were cared for while we rushed to the ER. It became about the kind of home that kept us in community while we walked through chaos. The kind that didn’t just function practically, but spiritually, emotionally, and relationally.
The work I do looks a lot like real estate, but beneath the logistics and negotiations, what I’m really doing is helping people find belonging.
I ask different questions than most. I’m not just curious about square footage, bedrooms, or bathrooms. I want to know what this home needs to hold for you. What season are you walking through? What is pressing on your heart that doesn’t yet have words? Where do you feel the most at ease?
I have learned to watch the cues. The hesitation in a mom’s voice when she wonders if the backyard fence is secure. The pause in a dad’s sentence when he is still recovering from a year that took more than it gave. I pay attention to the way their shoulders soften when we walk into that house, the one that just feels like peace.
We are not just picking finishes and floor plans. We are making room for healing. Maybe for starting over. For support. For growth.
I have the gift of helping families find what we once needed so desperately. Not just the “right house,” but the right place. The one appointed to hold both the ache and the awe. The one that will stretch with them while also staying steady through storms. The one that holds their story, with enough room to fall apart and enough light to begin again.
The kind of home that is already waiting, with the porch light on.
It was a year after heart surgeries and hospital stays, when the nights felt longer than the days and fear became a companion we learned to live beside, not underneath. I remember sitting in my spot on the couch, the L in the sectional facing the fireplace, looking out to the backyard. The house was dim, our street asleep, and a soft light glowed through the patio door. The neighbor’s porch light across the alley offered an unwavering and gentle “you’re not alone.” In that moment, something inside me knew. We were exactly where we were supposed to be. The year before, and again now.
That house wasn’t just a place to live. It was an appointed space. It was exactly what we needed, and where we needed to be, in that season.
Homes do that, if we let them. They carry our weight when we’re too tired to hold it ourselves. They catch our exhaustion, shelter our prayers, and become trusted keepers of all that we endure and all that we celebrate. The walls know the sounds of whispered fears and lullabies sung through tears. The floors remember the cadence of pacing feet and the giggles that broke through the heaviness. And the guest room became a lifeline when help came in the form of casseroles, impromptu hugs, and a quiet “Go, we’ve got this.”
Some homes are appointed, not purchased.
Just like a doctor is appointed to bring healing or a guardian is appointed to offer protection, I believe certain homes are appointed to hold space for what’s coming, whether that is restoration, becoming, or simply being.
They aren’t chosen just because they check the boxes or fit the budget. They are chosen because they are the backdrop for what unfolds next, the setting for milestones not yet experienced.
My journey into real estate didn’t begin with a passion for architecture or interior design. It began the day I realized that home is far more than a structure. It is a system of support, a knowing place to land when life asks more of us than we feel equipped to give.
When our son was diagnosed with a heart condition, the way I saw home changed completely. It was no longer about curb appeal or school ratings or proximity to coffee shops. It became about how close we were to family, so our other kids were cared for while we rushed to the ER. It became about the kind of home that kept us in community while we walked through chaos. The kind that didn’t just function practically, but spiritually, emotionally, and relationally.
The work I do looks a lot like real estate, but beneath the logistics and negotiations, what I’m really doing is helping people find belonging.
I ask different questions than most. I’m not just curious about square footage, bedrooms, or bathrooms. I want to know what this home needs to hold for you. What season are you walking through? What is pressing on your heart that doesn’t yet have words? Where do you feel the most at ease?
I have learned to watch the cues. The hesitation in a mom’s voice when she wonders if the backyard fence is secure. The pause in a dad’s sentence when he is still recovering from a year that took more than it gave. I pay attention to the way their shoulders soften when we walk into that house, the one that just feels like peace.
We are not just picking finishes and floor plans. We are making room for healing. Maybe for starting over. For support. For growth.
I have the gift of helping families find what we once needed so desperately. Not just the “right house,” but the right place. The one appointed to hold both the ache and the awe. The one that will stretch with them while also staying steady through storms. The one that holds their story, with enough room to fall apart and enough light to begin again.
The kind of home that is already waiting, with the porch light on.
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