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Welcome to Major Fixer, a newsletter about restoring and renovating my 125-year-old house, myself, the world...

I moved into this house with my family in Spring 2025, after more than a decade living in a Midwestern city that I didn't really connect with or enjoy. It was a necessary stop. During those 10+ years, I started healing from an emotionally abusive childhood, subsequent eating disorder and a lifetime of trauma. I cut ties with given family and invested fully in the kind of life and family I wanted to choose for myself. I became a mom. I built a career. I confronted demons I didn't even realize existed. And then, finally, it was time to move on.

My husband, kids, and I looked around and realized we'd all outgrown the place we were in. We decided to move somewhere we really wanted to be and to start over with a life that felt like we chose it together.

When we found our house in Portland, Oregon, we just knew. It was ugly and neglected. Many parts of it still are. It had old knob and tube wiring, leaks in the basement, a non-functioning furnace, and the original, crumbling terracotta sewer line. We'd told our realtor we were open to a place that needed a little TLC, but this was more than that.

"This is a major fixer," she warned us.

And we decided to take it on.

In the nine months since we bought this house, it's challenged me in so many ways. It's laughed in the face of my perfectionism, defied my sense of order, tested the limits of my physical and mental strength, strained my capacity to see its potential. And yet I love it.

It's the weirdest, coolest place I've ever lived. Every time we start a project thinking it's going to be straightforward, we end up finding something unexpected, running into problems we could never have predicted, biting off way more than we can chew, and having to pivot and re-examine and think outside the box.

I don't know why there's so much broken glass in the backyard dirt or why we keep finding buried toys in the space under the porch. I couldn't tell you about the random workout equipment in the crawlspace or why there's outdoor siding inside the wall behind the shower. This house is a story, and it reveals itself to us in bits and pieces.

It's quirky and rough around the edges. Nothing ever quite works the way it is supposed to. And it's this exact oddness that makes me identify with this place.

This is not the stately century home filled with marble and chandeliers and intricate woodwork. Don't get me wrong; it has plenty of charm. But it's also seen some shit.

And you know what? Same.

As I start this new chapter with my family, this new phase of my life beyond the hardships and healing of my past, I find myself feeling a sort of kinship with this place. Nothing about the process of fixing this place up is going to be like one of those TikToks where they show you some crusty wallpaper and then the music says," Can we skip to the good part?" and explodes in a chorus of "ahhs" as the camera pans over a $90,000 magazine-ready kitchen remodel.

We're working so damn hard. We're learning every step of the way. It's messy and imperfect, inconvenient, and way too fucking expensive. We're doing things ourselves, trying to raise good humans, trying to do good in the world, and trying to fight the good fight in a country that's coming apart at the seams. I'm just a 38-year-old woman trying to keep my head up and make my life into something I love and feel proud of.

Outside, the world is on fire. Inside, I don't know where I left my screwdriver.

Follow along for the adventure of it all.