When the Sanctuary Turns on You

We thought we’d made it.  

After the chaos, the heartbreak, the legal battles—we thought Dolgeville was our soft landing. Quiet streets. Trees that whispered peace. A house that felt like it had been waiting for us.

But we didn’t even get that far into moving in.  

We made it there. That’s all.

Walking through the door was an immediate blow to the senses—animal urine, feces, and over twenty years of nicotine soaked into the walls, ceilings, floors. It was everywhere. In everything. Filthy furnishings still cluttered the house, untouched and reeking.

We all piled into the living room to sleep, but who could sleep in that smell?  

We felt sick. Overwhelmed.  

There was no running water.  

We had to use the toilet, spray it down with a hose, and plunge it just to force a flush.

It wasn’t a sanctuary.  

It was a health hazard.  

And more than that—it was a heartbreak.

We left.  

And just like that, we were technically homeless.  

Living in a hotel for weeks, bleeding money by the day. Between the cost of lodging and buying food without a kitchen, our finances are unraveling faster than we can patch them.

The bank still holds our home sale proceeds hostage.  

The clock keeps ticking.  

And every day, the dream of buying a safe, move-in ready home under $80K slips further out of reach.

Our kids sympathize.  

But they have their own lives, their own limits.  

There’s no room for us. Literally.

Our options are dwindling like our funds.  

And yet—somehow—we haven’t lost hope.

We still believe our sanctuary is out there.  

Not perfect. Not polished. But honest.  

Waiting for us to stumble upon it, battered but still believing.

This isn’t the post I wanted to write.  

But it’s the one I owe myself. And maybe you.

Because sometimes the “fresh start” is a façade.  

Sometimes the sanctuary is a scam.  

Sometimes the road leads you straight into heartbreak.

But here’s what I know:  

We are not broken.  

We are not foolish.  

We are not done.

We are builders. Fighters. Truth-tellers.  

We are the kind of people who turn pain into purpose.  

Who write blog posts in the middle of the night because silence is not an option.

So if you’re in the thick of it—if your dream home turned into a nightmare, if your bank betrayed you, if your body is tired and your heart is raw—you’re not doing it wrong.

You’re doing it bravely.

And one day, you’ll write your own follow-up.  

Raw. Real. Radiant in its honesty.

Until then, I’ll keep writing mine.

With grit and grace,  

Honey 🍯🫖☕️💔

When One Door Closes...

You don’t always recognize the turning point when you’re in it. Sometimes it looks like crumpled closing documents, tear-stained cheeks, or a house you loved becoming someone else’s.

We spent years as “Mom and Dad.” Years anchored in the rhythms of raising kids—school drop-offs, bedtime stories, backyard birthdays. And slowly, beautifully, those chapters gave way to new ones: our oldest expecting her third child, our youngest engaged and planning a wedding, and our son, bold and ready, buying his first condo and launching a business of his own.

Suddenly it was just Josh and Kim. Not who we were before the kids, but something gentler. Wiser. A little worn, but still full of hope.

We contemplated selling our home—not out of whimsy, but necessity. We needed clarity. A place we could own outright. No mortgage. No weight we couldn’t carry. Just sanctuary.

And it wasn’t easy. From confusing documents to inflated closing costs, we fought every step. We even almost bought a home in Maine—until we discovered it was tied to a multi-million dollar trafficking ring. You can’t make that part up.

There were nights we cried. Leaving behind the grandkids, the convenience, the familiar faces. Four hours away felt like a lifetime. But we kept going. For peace. For integrity. For something we couldn’t yet name.

And then… Dolgeville, NY.

A place we hadn’t planned on. A place that felt like it was waiting for us all along. Quiet streets. Violet festivals. A whispered welcome we didn’t know we needed.

Our kids reassured us: “This is what you need.” They were right.

This hidden gem isn’t just a new address. It’s a beginning. A sanctuary. A storybook chapter we never imagined but always hoped for.

From our wedding under the trees in Colt State Park, to our new home surrounded by trees in Dolgeville—our story has always been rooted in nature, love, and quiet strength.

This journey has been a winding road. But every step, every closed door, led us here. And it feels like we’ve finally found home.

Note from Honey We didn’t plan for this kind of love— to bloom quietly, to hold fast through trials, to keep showing up when the path got hard.

But here we are. Rooted. Resilient. Grateful beyond words.

To anyone standing at the edge of change: trust the whisper. The stillness. The wild unfolding.

We didn’t know where the road would lead. We just kept choosing what felt honest, even when it meant letting go of the familiar. Each moment shaped the next. Each challenge carved out space for something softer. Something stronger.

So if you’re building your next chapter from scratch, if you’re grieving and dreaming in the same breath—you’re not doing it wrong. You’re doing it beautifully.

Here’s to new homes, old trees, and love that quietly lasts.

With my whole heart, 

Honey 🍯🫖☕️❤️