I’ve always dreamed of having a place to write in my house that wasn’t my room or the living room. I’ve operated for a long while in the fact that I write better in second spaces than I do sitting on my couch or at my desk in my room. It’s why many years ago I took to walking down the street to Redlight a bar by my house every Sunday for mimosas and words. Sometimes people would join me, most the time I’d sit alone at the table by the window with a steady flow of mason jar mimosas, bugles and words.
Some of my best writing occurred in that bar.
But, what I really wanted was the ability to have a space in my home that words could come and in all honesty, where I could be vulnerable with myself without seeming like everyone was watching me. So, when the opportunity arose to takeover a room in my house after the realization that it made more sense to rent the second room that attempt to find a studio or one bedroom at the same price I jumped at it.
Then life happened. And it kept happening.
Over and Over.
And somewhere along the way the empty room downstairs became a space to hold the chaos when it felt it was bursting at the seams.
In the summer of 2025 when my body was breaking down it became a closet of sorts. Easier to toss my clothes in here than bring them upstairs.
There were two bookshelves built, one bigger and one smaller. Organized and they truly brought me joy and peace to look at them.
They were pieces of who I know I am amidst a mess of who life was trying to tell me I was.
Every time it seemed I began to get a handle on the mess life responded.
Hospitalizations, fatigue, my dad passing.
But, I knew, deep in my knower, that this room was important. That it would become a place to move from.
That it would become a place to honor where I was came from, to honor where I am standing and to be a place to move into what was next.
That it would become a place of home and rest.
In order to do it though; I had to find a way to command the chaos.
We ended up scheduling a family dinner at my house and my timeline was about a month. Here’s the thing: I’m exhausted after work. I work a busy, physical job as someone living with chronic illness. There are some days where I barely make it to my bed after work without being dizzy from exhaustion.
I also just keep fucking going.
So it started slowly. I would still come home and rest. I would eat dinner. And then for 20-30 minutes every night I’d pick something. Going through paperwork, hanging up clothes, throwing trash away. Then, I decided to disrupt my bedroom more and I cleaned out my desk and brought it downstairs. I ordered a rug. Two Fridays ago, I had my housemate lug the two boxes that held two more bookcases into my library. I cleared space.
I spent a Saturday morning cleaning my kitchen, so it would have a clean slate to cook and bake. And then I built my first bookcase. It took me about an hour and half.
And I knew then, that I would finish my project and I changed the event in our family calendar to “Meg’s Library Grand opening”
I did it.
I made a room filled with chaos because a place to land.
I think it’s so important to not allow life to write your story for you. To not allow the things that have presented themselves as defining moments to be about the moment but instead to be about who you became from the moment.
And I think this room is a picture of who I’m choosing to be from the places that I’ve walked through.
I’ve said it again and again that I’ve had to actively choose to not let all the things turn me into a person I didn’t want to become.
But, I can’t argue with or disagree with the fact that I am a different person because of all those things. There just isn’t a way around it.
As I look around this room I can see it all though. I see places I’ve come from, people who mark places in my life even if they aren’t in it anymore. Literally beauty from ashes.
A city rebuilt on ruins if you will.
I see someone who chose to do something about the chaos, little by little, piece by piece even when my body didn’t want to body.
I see someone who decided to not let grief steer any longer or walk ahead of me anymore.
I don’t know if you’ve been in a place where you’re staring at a space that has no peace or purpose and wondered how you can reclaim it.
I don’t know if you’ve stood at the bottom of the hill unable to even see the top.
But, I do know you can do it.
Little by little.
Piece by piece.
Reclaim it.
Keep fucking going.
That’s all.
With love,
Meg
PS to see my library follow the link below
