I write letters to my house.
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She writes back.

This is the ongoing correspondence between a woman learning to live in the life she‘s already built and the house that’s been watching her since the beginning.

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For a long time, this place was just a house to me. I decorated, tried to make it look like I had my life together, waited for it to feel like home. Then something shifted and Marla started speaking—not out loud, obviously, but in the way spaces speak when you’re finally present enough to hear them.

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Now we both write. I write about learning to be grounded, about honoring what I have instead of running. Marla writes about what she sees, the version of me I can’t see myself.

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This isn’t advice of aesthetics. Just the truth about being present in a life you’re still building.