Welcome to Our In-Between.

Right now, the rooms are quiet. The furniture has been packed away, the floors are bare, and echoes bounce off the walls that once held stories, laughter, and shared meals.

The dining table, the sofa, the lamps and books and dishes are gone for now. Carefully stored. Waiting.

In the driveway sits a big steel box, filled with boxes and the pieces of our life that will come back together again, just a little differently. It’s strange to see our life packed up like that, held in metal and waiting for a new beginning.

Inside, the garage is slowly becoming our new makeshift kitchen. A space that might not look like much right now, but is already holding the weight of transition, and the promise of what will come next.

Downstairs, the basement is on pause. Work halted until the inspector gives the go-ahead. There’s a kind of stillness there, a reminder that even progress has its quiet moments. We can’t rush the curing, the settling, the unseen work that needs to happen underground before anything strong can be built above it.

So, for now, we live in the pause.

And even here, in the waiting, we dream.

We imagine the new kitchen filled with sunlight and the smells of bread and cookies, and the sounds of laughter. We picture a living space that welcomes every guest as if they’ve always belonged. We see a garden that grows wild with food and flowers, a yard filled with life and stories and community.

We imagine friends around the table. Family coming home. Dishes being passed. Hands reaching out.

We imagine a house that doesn’t just hold our lives, but shares them.

This isn’t the final reveal. This is the middle. The messy, meaningful middle.

And even in the dust and delay, there is so much beauty in becoming.