The floors are covered in ram board, that brown, papery stuff meant to protect surfaces during construction. It’s supposed to be temporary, but ours has been down long enough to earn a few scuffs of its own. To make it feel less like a construction site, I’ve rolled rugs across it, layering soft corners of home on top of something that whispers unfinished.
Rugs rolled over ram board, a soft corner of home on top of the unfinished.
This is where we live right now: a temporary space while the “real” house waits for us just beyond. It’s not what I pictured when we started this project five years ago. Back then, I thought we’d be settled by now, tucked into the rooms we’ve been dreaming up for so long. Instead, I’m making sheet pan dinners in the toaster oven, tucking appliances into wooden wine crates stacked as shelves, and reminding myself daily that this stage counts too.
The funny thing is, it does feel like home. It’s the place we come back to after long days. The place where we drink coffee and matcha in the morning and track sawdust across the ram board at night. Even in its imperfection, there’s something grounding about being here together.
Last winter, we showered outside, a makeshift stall shrink-wrapped against the wind. I’ll never forget the way the steam condensed and beaded down the plastic walls, the shock of snow crunching under bare feet after slipping out of my sandal when climbing out of the zipper “door,” the mix of discomfort and pride that came with pulling it off. It was absurd, it was inconvenient, and it was ours.
And that’s what I’m learning: home isn’t only about the finished rooms and polished countertops. It’s about the chapters along the way, the ram board, the rugs, the outdoor showers, the little things that make the unfinished livable.
I used to think I’d wait to share until everything was done. Until the “real house” was ready, the rooms painted, the kitchen finished. But the truth is, these messy middle stories are the ones that will stay with me longest. And maybe, just maybe, they’re worth telling as they happen.
So here begins The Brambler, not from a glossy reveal, but from the in-between. From a home that’s still finding its shape, and from me, still finding mine.
Bramble On 🌿
Bea
Thanks for reading!