A House is Just a House

Written By Courtney Psenicka

It was a brisk February afternoon—grey, cloudy, and heavy with that familiar feeling of waiting for spring to arrive. After a long five-hour drive away from everything I had ever known as home, we wound our way down a neighborhood road. We passed lakeside mansions and modest farmhouses with land stretching for miles. Finally, we arrived at a steep driveway, and at the top of the hill sat a simple, quiet house. It looked a little lonely, perched across from a small lake, calm enough to see all the way around. In the distance, a train let out a low, echoing whistle.

“This is it,” he said to me. We’d been dating only five months, but in my heart, I already knew I wanted to be with him forever. He was the kind of guy who would stop to help anyone on the side of the road, who always tried to do the right thing, who worked hard and was mostly mature. The fact that he had bought this house before moving to my hometown almost felt as if that tiny invisible string of the universe was threading us together all along. We walked inside. Let’s just say—it needed a little TLC. The cabinets, hand-painted white, were chipped at the edges. The bathrooms were dusty, the walls painted in some of the most “vintage” 70’s shades you could imagine (but not the trendy ones). The house smelled of stale cigarette smoke and air that had been trapped inside far too long. Yet, as I looked around, I couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of our future. I pictured cooking in the double ovens, celebrating Christmas by the fireplace, playing with kids in the open living room, sunlight spilling in through the windows.

“I love it,” I said, as we turned to leave.

I climbed into the passenger seat of the truck, and as we pulled out of the driveway, I realized I was silently praying that one day, I’d return to this house—and that every little image flashing in my mind would come true.

It’s hard to look back on the memories from the past six years as I sit in this once-quiet house—soon to be listed on the market, yet still very much my home. I glance around and see our daughter’s toys scattered on the floor, brand new cabinets installed during my pregnancy, a wilted flower garden my dad and I planted in the spring, and the fireplace that’s kept us warm during so many cozy winters and holidays. I did, in fact, return to that quiet house on the hill—and I built memories there. Our love grew in this house, and our family grew here. We spent countless hours tearing out showers, painting bedrooms, preparing for children who would one day fill them. We brought home our first daughter, Nora, and began raising her here.

So, it tugs at my heart to finish unfinished projects, wipe tiny finger prints off glass windows, take final photos, and say goodbye to a place that laid the foundation for our life together. But as I reflect on my time here, I realize that every move we make is an opportunity to turn the page to a new chapter in our story.

I’ve lived in many different places throughout my life— a beautiful family farmhouse overlooking a pond teeming with wildlife, a small apartment shared with my mom, sisters, and grandparents, a dorm room, a quiet little house in a tiny town, and now, this peaceful home where I’ve built my family. But as I look back, I realize it was never the place that made me feel at home.

Having a large farmhouse to run around in as a child, or the sunroom in my current home where I soak in the winter sunshine, has been wonderful. But it’s the people, the love, and the memories we create in these spaces that truly make a home.

Where I feel most at home is where my heart feels whole and safe. It’s where I can be my most authentic self. Where I get to love and raise my beautiful children. Where I find comfort in my partner’s arms after a long, stressful day. My home, in the end, is with my family— wherever that may be.

Wherever my family lands next will mark the beginning of a new chapter in our lives—bringing a second child into our family and giving sweet Nora a sister. It will be her chance to run through the halls of a house the way I did as a child, dragging her sister along on all their little adventures. But what will truly make it a home is the love we share there. The meals, the first words, the stories, the holidays, the tears and the challenges. Our love and growth will continue to fill its quiet spaces with little girl whispers, bedtime stories, dancing music, and "I love you’s."

Though I’m sad to leave this house behind, I’m deeply grateful for the memories it’s given us. And, more than anything, I’m excited for the future ahead. Because a house is just a house—until you make it a home.

As I reflect on what this home has meant to us, I find myself wondering—what is it that makes your space feel like home? Is it the people you share it with, the laughter, the quiet moments? Whatever it is, remember that home isn’t defined by the walls around us, but by the love, memories, and moments that make it truly ours.

With Love and Gratitude,

The Mindful Mom

Court