Who Will I Be When I Don’t Live Here Anymore?

An Unofficial Biography Told in House Plans

I’ve lived in a lot of houses. Some were planned down to the last detail; others… well, let’s just say “whim” is a very charitable word. Each one is tied to a moment in my life — some moments I’d like to revisit, and others I’d rather block out forever. But every house, every address, is part of my story

The funny thing is, you can revisit most of your old addresses now with a quick Zillow search. Just type it in, click, and boom — you’re standing in the yard again at ten years old, your dad pruning roses while his old truck sits in the drive. Except… it’s not his truck anymore. The shutters are some strange color you definitely don’t remember. And you know no one’s going to pull into that driveway after work with a special treat for you in the passenger seat because they are gone.

The House That Made Me

One of my childhood homes still pops into my dreams sometimes. I can see the yard, smell the cut grass of the almost one-acre lot, and hear the slam of that front screen door. Its floorplan is etched in my mind. My brother and I would ride bikes around that neighborhood until we were called in for dinner. Back then, I thought houses stayed the same forever, like they were immune to time. Now, looking at that Zillow photo with someone else’s car parked out front, I realize they change as much as we do.

My First Home

When I built my very first home, I went big. Not in square footage — big in ambition. I even installed a pool. I thought I’d arrived. But life changed, as it does, and a new job meant a new city. I sold the house without much emotion, numbed by the speed of it all.

A couple of years later, nostalgia hit me like a rogue wave. I drove down that street, saw the current owners outside, and in a moment of pure desperation asked them to sell it back to me. They politely declined, probably wondering if I was about to pitch a tent in their backyard. I drove away knowing someone else was floating in the pool I designed — and hoping, truly, that they loved it as much as I did.

The Beach Whim (a.k.a. The Regret House)

One day, in a fit of “why not?”, I bought an adorable three-story home on the bay in Pensacola. It had views, charm, and a way of making you feel like you were in a postcard. It also had the power to make me miserable and lonely.

I don’t even like thinking about that time. I can still feel the sting of driving back to Texas with my car full of boxes and my head full of regret. It was the loneliest I had ever been.

The Little Home That Held Big Changes

When I came to Birmingham, I knew two things: I wanted to put down roots, and I wanted to adopt a child. My grandparents had adopted my dad, and I’d always known I’d do the same someday. That someday came in the form of a four-year-old girl who changed my life.

I bought a tiny two-bedroom on Dixon Avenue in Homewood. It was the perfect size for us. Later, when I got married, my husband moved in. Then another kid arrived. Suddenly, that perfect little house felt like the inside of a clown car. We added on, made it work, and then — like a perfectly scripted real estate love story — we found “the one.”

Our Forever-For-Now Home

It was a double lot on a corner with an alley — prime Homewood magic. We designed our dream home from scratch, the place where we’d raise our kids and maybe (one day) add a pool again. It’s a revolving door of neighbors, friends, and family. We’ve lived in every square inch — movie marathons in the game room, impromptu science experiments in the backyard, late-night talks on the porch.

I love seeing my boys walk to school each morning. I love hearing their laughter drift through the backyard when they play with friends. I love that our walls have soaked up so much life.

And I can’t imagine a day when this house isn’t mine. But I know it will come. One day, maybe, I’ll see it online with someone else’s furniture and think about the life we lived here. Will my heart ache? Or will I smile knowing it’s home to a whole new set of memories for someone else?

What I’ve Learned (Sort Of)

I wish I had some profound, sage advice about letting go of homes to tell you (or myself), but I don’t. Sometimes it’s painful. Sometimes it’s freeing. Most of the time, it’s both.

When I work with buyers and sellers, I try to remember that behind every address is a chapter in someone’s story. It’s not just a roof and walls — it’s where babies are rocked, where first steps are taken, where breakups are survived, and where joy (and pain) lives.

Sometimes we sell a house because we have to, not because we want to. Sometimes we leave because there’s something better waiting. Either way, each home becomes a part of us, even if all we can see now is a Zillow photo with paint colors we’d never pick.

The Truth About Homes and Hearts

Maybe the real magic of a home isn’t the bricks and mortar — it’s the version of ourselves we were while we lived there. And when we leave, that version stays, frozen in time, while we go on to become someone new.

I’ve lived in houses I loved, houses I regretted, houses that saved me, and houses that gave me a reason to get up in the morning. And I know I’ll live in more. But no matter where I go, a part of me will always be standing in that childhood yard, watching my dad cut roses, waiting for my brother to slam that screen door.