The Project || 18+ [ON HOLD]

1.

People say you can't fix what's already broken, but they're wrong. I've proven that with every home renovation I complete. I've always loved fixing broken things. It's what made me interested in home renovation in the first place. That, and being able to flip these once-broken homes to make a profit is a nice bonus.

The truth is, there's something almost holy about taking something old, something worn and tarnished, and breathing new life into it. Each imperfection, every worn surface, tells its own tale. And I get to be the one to give that story a happy ending. The belief that with a little love and care, anything can be saved, is what drives me.

But what happens when the thing that's broken is inside you? What if you're the cracked wood, the stained carpet? Sure, you can paint over a faded wall or polish a hardwood floor, but mending a heart? Smoothing over a soul's rough edges? That's a different story. I've spent so much time trying to fix other people's homes, maybe because I couldn't bear to face the repairs needed in my own life.

I keep hoping that by fixing what's around me, maybe, just maybe, some of that magic will rub off on me. Maybe I'll wake up one day, and the cracks in my own heart will have mended, the scars of my past somehow smoothed over.

But it doesn't work that way, does it? Houses, they don't have feelings. They don't have hearts that break and dreams that shatter. They're just wood and nails, bricks and mortar.

I've learned to be good at fixing things. Really good. But in the end, I've never been able to fix myself. And the truth hurts more than any rusty nail or splintered wood ever could. But even so, I keep trying, keep believing in the power of renewal, of second chances, not just for old homes but for weary souls like mine.

People say you can't fix what's already broken, but I can't stop myself from trying. Maybe because the act of fixing, of bringing new life to what was once lost, is my way of holding onto hope. Hope that if a rundown house can find a second chance, then maybe, so can I.

Ever since I bought that old farmhouse out on Maple Lane, I can't help but dream a little. That house, it's like something out of a Southern Living magazine. White picket fence, big wraparound porch, acres of land stretching out as far as the eye can see. It's the kind of house you settle down in, the kind of place where you raise kids and grow old.

I've always had a soft spot for small towns, for their cozy homes and country charm. When I was younger, I used to imagine that one day, I'd find myself living in a place like this. I'd be the woman who'd bring casseroles to the neighborhood potluck, the one who'd decorate her porch with mums in the fall and twinkling lights at Christmas. I saw myself as part of a community, a place where I'd finally belong.

But my dreams have always been just that—a dream. I've never been able to set down roots, not really. My life's been a series of renovations and moves, a string of new towns and unfamiliar faces. It's like I'm always packing up before I've even had the chance to unpack. I tell myself it's just the way life is for me, that some folks are wanderers and I'm one of them.