The House That Built Us: What a Visit to Our Old Home Taught Me About Self-Care

Years ago, my husband and I stood on a patch of dirt and imagined our future. We chose the white siding and the green shutters. We picked out wood floors we could dance on and countertops where our daughters would sit and tell us about their days. We poured our hearts into designing not just a house, but a home—a space that would hold our dreams, memories, and milestones.

And it did.

We brought all four of our daughters home to that house. We finished the basement and created a playroom that echoed with laughter, tantrums, and imagination. We welcomed friends, neighbors, and even strangers who eventually became chosen family. At one point, my in-laws moved in when Dad’s health was failing, and we made room for care and love in every sense of the word.

We hosted birthday parties that included streamers and chaos, a backyard wedding that brought tears and joy, and yes, even a funeral that brought us to our knees.

That house witnessed every version of us.

And we took care of it. Like a member of the family. We mowed the lawn, painted the trim, cleaned the gutters, and patched up what was worn before it could crumble. We maintained it because we knew that love doesn’t just show up—it shows up and puts in the work.

It’s been 13 years since we moved out.

I recently drove by, curious. I wanted to see how the house that held so much of our life was doing. I wasn’t prepared.

The paint was peeling. The shutters on the first floor were blue while the ones upstairs remained the green we had chosen—it looked like someone started caring and then stopped halfway. The landscaping had grown wild, with weeds choking out the beauty we once nurtured. Screens were ripped, and the windows, once gleaming with little handprints and holiday decorations, looked tired.

And it hit me—this house, left unattended, was falling apart. Not just on the surface, but deeper. Likely in the foundation. The support beams. The places you don’t see until something starts to collapse.

And isn’t that exactly what happens when we stop taking care of ourselves?

We can ignore the signs for a while—the peeling paint of burnout, the mismatched shutters of emotional disconnect, the weedy overgrowth of resentment. We can patch things up here and there, but unless we’re regularly checking the foundation—our rest, boundaries, purpose, and joy—we will eventually feel the cracks.

Self-care isn’t bubble baths and spa days (though those are lovely). It’s maintenance. It’s showing up for ourselves in the unglamorous ways. Getting enough sleep. Saying no when we need to. Nourishing our bodies. Having hard conversations. Asking for help. Reconnecting with what brings us life before we lose ourselves completely.

Because just like a house, you can’t wait until you fall apart to start paying attention. By then, the cost is much higher.

So this is your invitation—not just to remember to care for yourself but to maintain yourself. Tend to your inner landscaping. Touch up the peeling paint. Replace the ripped screens that were once your boundaries. Strengthen your support beams.

You are your own home. Make sure you’re treating yourself like one.