I don’t want the perfect house.

You know the ones. Everything is too manicured. Everything is styled. Everything is agreed upon.

There is no room for improvement. Everyone walks in and nods. That’s the problem.

That house has already decided what it is. Where you sit. How you live.
What it’s supposed to feel like.

There’s nothing left to read. There’s nothing left to debate. There is no walking around the property, wine glass in hand & the Stones playing on the record player at sunset, and envisioning the new pool you might resurrect.

I want the one that’s a little off. Not bad. Just not being seen properly. Not wrong. Just misread.

Like a late bloomer.
The ugly duckling.

Those. Those are the ones.

The ones people move past because they don’t immediately make sense. The ones that make you pause for a second.

That’s the house.

Because at this level, nobody is buying a house.

They’re buying how it feels to move through it.

And when something doesn’t land, it’s almost never the house.

It’s the way it’s being presented.

And that, my friend, is my drug. Let me reconstuct the forgotten, the aged, the potential. I feel a business model incoming…

The multi-million dollar fixers I’d buy today.

5443 Calzada Del Bosque

Ohhhh, my spanish love. You are so ripe for the spotlight.

This is being called dated. It’s not. It’s original. And that distinction matters. You walk in and the issue is obvious.

Too much weight.

The house wants to be lighter and everything around it is working against that. Start in the courtyard. That’s the center of the house. Right now it’s doing nothing. That’s where the pool is built. Right in the middle. Visible from everywhere.

Now the house has a reason to open up.

Inside, you don’t rebuild this. You edit it. Take things away. Quiet it down. Let the structure come back. Create a neutral palette. Tone on tone.

The kitchen needs to function, not perform. Full chef’s dream incoming. Plenty of room for all the boujee choices.

And the primary? The primary needs to feel like a retreat, not another room.

Once those are right, everything else follows.

16039 Via Del Alba

I love this house. I’ve walked this house many times. I almost bought this house.

But it needs an intervention. It has the potential to become a bad-ass classic.

This one is straightforward. It’s the finishes.

Of course, any staged home is a bit of a tough sale for me. But trust me this one has potential.

And you don’t need to overthink it. But time does need to be spent on the fixture selection, a new kitchen layout & some serious upgrades.

The property itself works. The guest house works. The barn works. The layout works.

It just hasn’t been pulled together. It’s like a facelift. Bones are there. Needs a tweak.

This house wants to be quieter. More controlled. More intentional.

You simplify it & it resolves itself quickly.

18024 Avenida Alondra

The one everyone’s sleeping on. Wanna know why? Because it’s a sh*t ton of work. And it will probably be scraped for a 20M single-story cookie-cutter. Cool. So not.

This is the one you either see or you don’t. Most people won’t.

But I see that aerial shot and my heart sinks. I want in.

Buyers will walk it, hesitate, and move on.

Which is exactly why it’s still for sale. This isn’t a turnkey decision. It’s a commitment.

You start with the land. Then the structure. And you ignore everything that doesn’t matter.

If it’s done right, it becomes something very specific. Not broad. Not for everyone. But clear. There’s no halfway version of this that works.

Most people want the house that makes sense immediately.

I don’t.

I want the one that takes a second.

Because those are the ones that turn into something.

And usually, the ones that feel the best to live in
are the same ones that sell for the most later.

They are the authentics. And you can’t recreate that.

Funny how that works.

Yesterday I had lunch with two women I adore. Friends. Both entrepreneurs.

Bad asses.

It was one of those lunches where the conversation moved quickly between ideas, projects, and questions about what we are building next, pushing each other a little further outside our comfort zones. I had no problem diving straight into what is keeping me stuck before the drinks even arrived. A safe space will do that for you.

Somewhere in the middle of it, I realized something slightly wild.

Most of what I am building right now exists entirely in my head and on my laptop.

If you could see the inside of it, it would probably look like a fairly elaborate operation. Layers of ideas. Real estate strategies. Design projects. Writing. Concepts that are half-formed. Others are fully formed. A few are even sitting on my desktop, ready to hit launch.

I like to call it a seven-figure torture.

From the outside, though, you mostly see Instagram. A small slice of things I actually share publicly. The reality is that I am a fairly private person. Quiet even. But internally, it is essentially a full-time strategy meeting.

Which is how I found myself back here today, writing a Substack post.

Not because it is perfectly thought out. Not because it is part of some carefully engineered content plan. But because it was time to do it.

Ideas that stay in your head forever are not really ideas. They are thoughts waiting for permission.

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate.”
-Carl Jung

Jung is essentially saying that what lives in your head must be brought into the open, or it controls you invisibly.

I think my third dog needs to be named Carl.

Entrepreneurial instincts have always been there for me.

When I was little, I sold Girl Scout cookies like it was a competitive sport. I created a neighborhood magic show. I taught myself dance routines from MTV videos I recorded. My first real business was selling scrunchies I designed to the nurses at the hospital where my mom worked.

Looking back, it feels fairly obvious that building things was always going to be part of my life.

What is interesting is that the instinct itself has never really changed. Only the tools have.

The scrunchies turned into design projects. The design projects turned into real estate. And lately, my curiosity has wandered into an entirely new playground.

Learning new systems. Experimenting with ideas. Asking questions like, “How fast can I build my own AI?”

Which is exactly why there is now a Mac Mini sitting on my desk.

Apparently, this is where curiosity has taken me next.

And that is not the only thing brewing.

Some ideas live in notebooks. Some are already half-built. A few are one button away from launch.

But yesterday’s lunch reminded me of something simple.

At some point, you have to begin.

Not when the idea is fully formed. Not when the plan is flawless.

Just begin.

I have failed at plenty of things. Personally. Quietly. And occasionally very publicly. At this point, that part does not bother me much anymore.

A few months ago, someone made a comment that was meant to sting a little. She told me it was obvious from my social media that I was going through a breakup.

Which I found mildly amusing.

Because the alternative would have been pretending everything was perfect.

And honestly, I have spent enough years watching people perform perfection online and off to know how exhausting that act must be.

What actually happened instead was something far more interesting. When you share pieces of real life instead of performing a version of it, people respond. Conversations open up. People connect. Sometimes healing shows up in places you did not expect.

So if someone prefers to sit quietly on the sidelines and judge, that is their choice. I would rather be the person actually doing something.

Which is exactly how I ended up here today.

Because apparently, the seven-figure business in my head is tired of waiting.

I should not be this obsessed with a house. But here we are.

This modernist home in Rancho Santa Fe, California, is one of the most interesting properties on the market right now.

I could change my last name to Neutra and be satisfied.

Let’s be honest. This one is not turnkey.

There is real deferred maintenance here. Some tricky areas. A few moments that make you pause and think, okay, how would I even do this?

And honestly that is exactly why I love it.

God knows I love a challenge.

I have walked this property several times now. Every time I go back, I find a new corridor, a new angle of light, a new quiet moment where I can suddenly see what this house could become when it is done right.

Put it this way.
If I were buying right now, I would buy this one myself. No hesitation.

Why this house hits different

This is not a builder modern.
It is not a flip.
It is not trying to be trendy.

It is architecture.

The lines are calm.
The spaces breathe.
The light moves through it the way it is supposed to.

It does not perform.
It just exists, confidently.

That is what makes it special.

The opportunity

Most people will see a big project.

I see a modernist foundation in Rancho Santa Fe that almost never comes along, with the kind of upside you do once in your life if you are lucky.

You could make this your own Shangri-La.
Send the kids to Rancho Santa Fe schools.
Walk to The Inn for a martini like you own the place.

That combination does not show up very often.

But here it is.

If this one made you feel something, reply to this post or this email, and I will send you the price, floor plan, and disclosures privately. I can also coordinate a showing if it feels like a fit.

And yes, I will tell you exactly what I would do to it.

Listing courtesy of Keith York, modernsandiego.com.
Photos courtesy of Keith York. Information deemed reliable but not guaranteed.

This Rancho Santa Fe modern home is listed for sale and available for private showings.

Let’s get something out of the way. I’m a snob.

In the best possible way.

About houses.

About whether a home has bones or just a pretty face.
About whether a room knows how to hold light.
About whether something is actually worth loving for the next twenty years and not just for one good Instagram photo.

And no, I am not done with life lessons or love stories. Those never really end. But right now it all comes together here, in the spaces we choose to live in and the lives we build inside them.

When you work with me, you’ll see it. I don’t sugarcoat. I don’t hype. I tell it like it is because at the end of the day I want you to love the life and the home you create, not just the listing you bought.

Some houses are turnkey.
Most need a little or a lot of love.

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Just like us.

And honestly that is when it gets good.

That is when the story starts.
That is when you make it yours.
That is when you become the person at the dinner party who cannot wait to say, “Wait until you see what we did to this place.”

This is where I will show you the houses I cannot stop thinking about. The ones with real potential, real character, and real upside.

The ones that make you linger.
The ones you keep coming back to.
The ones you start mentally redecorating before you even leave the driveway.

Not everything will be perfect. But nothing ever is.

If it were, we’d have nothing to gossip about.

Welcome to I’d Buy This House. 😏

When you lose your father at six years old, your entire life shifts in ways most people will never understand. There is no instruction manual. There is no normal. There is no “childhood as scheduled.” You grow up faster than everyone around you, whether you meant to or not.

So when kids complained about their dads being away on work trips in their suburban houses of four, I was the twelve-year-old climbing a ladder to hang my own Christmas lights. Their world felt small and safe. Mine felt like survival and self-sufficiency.

So yes, it took me a while to understand relativity. For a long time, I could not understand how anyone could complain about things that felt like what “normal” must feel like. I could not understand how someone with two parents, a comfortable life, and a full family could claim they had it hard.

Their pain felt unfounded.
Mine felt undeniable.

But here is the twist I did not see coming.

I was wrong.
Cute, but wrong.

For a long time, I thought pain was ranked.
Like there was some invisible scoreboard in the sky giving points for who had it worse.

It was a badge I had no desire to wear.

And whatever I was going through at the time?
Obviously, the worst thing any human had ever survived.

In my 20’s, there always seemed to be some challenge, and I was certain I was the most emotionally wounded person on earth.

Then I learned something important.
All pain feels like “the worst” when it is happening to you.
Not because it is objectively the worst, but because it is yours.

That is relativity.
The human version.
Not Einstein and chalkboards.
Just people trying to make sense of their lives.

Nothing feels the same to everyone, because we are not all built from the same ingredients.

Different childhood.
Different nervous system.
Different attachment style.
Different history.
Different coping skills.
Different suitcase of trauma.

So yes.
What feels like a paper cut to someone else can hit you like open heart surgery.
And what shattered you might barely scratch another person.

None of us are wrong.
We are just different.
And every experience counts because someone lived it.

Once that landed, everything softened.
People became easier to love.
Compassion felt obvious.
Judgment felt lazy.

I retired from the Pain Olympics.
No more comparing.
No more “other people have it worse.”
No more “you should be over this by now.”

Do not let anyone minimize your experience.
When someone says “it could be worse,” what they really mean is “shrink your feelings to make me comfortable.”

Hard pass.

Now, if you want to get science-y about it, here is the official breakdown.

And yes, I get to say science-y. My therapist broke down in session this week that I am one of those rare unicorn humans who is both right-brained and left-brained. Apparently, that is a thing. It means I get to be creative and logical, emotional and analytical, intuitive and practical.

It tracks. I started college as an accounting major, realized I would rather chew glass than do taxes forever, and went right back to design, where beauty, strategy, rules, emotion, logic, and chaos all get to sit together without anyone filing a 1099 about it.

So here is the adult, therapy approved, scientifically sound lab report:

Hypothesis:
Everyone believes their pain is the biggest and most catastrophic until they learn to see beyond themselves.

Experiment:
Live. Love. Lose. Cry. Go to therapy. Think you are healed. Get triggered. Repeat.

Conclusion:
Nobody wins the suffering Olympics.
Empathy is undefeated.
And anyone who claims they are fine without self awareness is absolutely not fine.

This matters especially in divorce and breakup, because people love to compare heartbreak.
Who had it worse.
Who moved on faster.
Who looks happier.
Who won.

As if grief has a stopwatch.
As if healing has a scoreboard.
As if someone else gets to vote on your feelings.

No.

Your heart matters because it is yours.
Your pain counts because you felt it.
Your healing timeline is your own, not a performance for public review.

Which brings me to something new.

I am building PLAN D.
A divorce support course that is actually empowering.
Not sad.
Not pitiful.
Not “let us sit on the floor and cry forever.”

Tools. Scripts. Strategy. Strength.
The exact support I wish I had when my life was breaking and rebuilding at the same time.

Whether it is for you, your best friend, or your sister, I’ve got you.

Sign up for PLAN D.
More support. More clarity. A softer landing.
Because the only thing worse than a breakup is going through it on your own.

I’ve been quiet for a minute. That’s what happens when life is actually happening.

Big. Full. Real.
The kind of living you don’t post about because you’re too deep in it.

Good things are coming…

But today, while I was working, this little gem I wrote popped back up. Still holds. Still hits.

So, happy Friday to anyone doing their thing. Music on. Inbox open. Damn good flow. Finally.
And then THAT name appears. Or whatever fake name you gave it this week.

Let me stop you right there.

Do not spiral.
Do not open the group chat.
Do not text five friends for backup.
Do not reframe the story again just to feel heard.
Do not run the scene where they finally get it.

We are not doing that today.

We are not explaining basic human decency.
We are not rehashing emotional confusion.
We are not handing over our peace to anyone who didn’t protect it the first time.

This guide is for the moment your hands shake.
The moment your brain starts writing a novel.
The moment you forget that silence is a full sentence.

These are not love notes.
They are not rage texts.
They are not invitations to engage.

They are closers.
They are boundaries.
They are what self-respect sounds like.

Copy. Paste. Adapt. Or don’t send a thing.

Sometimes the win is staying quiet.
Sometimes it’s simply not giving them more of you.

Scroll when you’re ready.
Take what you need. Leave the rest.
Your peace isn’t up for negotiation.

Screenshot it. Save it.
Or tell Chat to rewrite it in your voice.
Because let’s be honest, that message may have come from his phone…
but it’s not exactly giving his tone.

Let’s get to it.

When You Just Need to Acknowledge It
Noted.
Got it.
I’ve received this.
Understood.
Thanks for the update.
I’ll take a look.
I’ll let you know.
I’m aware.
Copy that.
Message received.

When You Need Space
I’m not available to respond right now.
I’ll get back to you when I’m able.
I need a little time before I can respond.
I’ll reply once I’ve had a chance to review.
I’ll circle back soon.
I’m not in a place to engage right now.
Let’s pause this and revisit later.
I’m not having this conversation over text.
Let’s talk another day.
I need space. I’ll reach out when I’m ready.

When You Want Things in Writing
Please put that in writing.
Can you email this instead?
Let’s keep all communication to email.
I’d prefer to have this in writing.
I’m not discussing this unless it’s documented.
Please send it formally so I can review it.
For clarity, email is best.
I’ll wait to respond until it’s sent in writing.
Put it in writing and I’ll respond when I can.
I don’t feel comfortable discussing this via text.

When It’s About the Kids
Let’s keep this focused on the kids.
What’s best for the kids needs to come first.
I’m only available to discuss parenting matters.
Let’s stick to the co-parenting plan.
I’d like to revisit our parenting schedule.
I’ll communicate through the parenting app.
This isn’t about the kids. (Ending the convo here.)
I’m not discussing personal matters during kid exchanges.
Please communicate respectfully, the kids are around.
Let’s transition this to the app for clarity.

When They’re Pushing Boundaries
That’s not going to work for me.
I’ve already communicated my answer.
My decision stands.
I’m not going back and forth on this.
We’re not renegotiating this.
That topic is closed.
I’m not comfortable discussing this further.
I’ve made my boundaries clear.
I’ve already said no.
I’m not available for this type of exchange.

When They’re Being Manipulative
I’m not responding to that.
This feels like a trap. I am ending the convo here.
I won’t engage in this dynamic.
I’m choosing not to respond to that tone.
I see what you’re trying to do. I’m not playing.
This conversation isn’t productive.
We can continue with a third party if needed.
I’ll respond when things are more respectful.
I’m not going to argue.
This feels like an emotional setup. I’m stepping back.

When Silence Is the Move
[No response.]
[Leave on read.]
[Archive the thread.]
[Mute the conversation.]
[Delete the message.]
[Write a draft but don’t send it.]
[Walk away and re-read later.]
[Let 24 hours pass.]
[Say nothing. Your peace matters more.]
[Remind yourself: silence is a full sentence.]

When Legal Stuff Comes Up
Please send that through our attorneys.
I’ll let my lawyer respond.
My attorney will be in touch.
That needs to go through the proper legal channels.
I’m not discussing legal matters over text.
Let’s keep this between the professionals.
I’ve forwarded this to my legal team.
Please direct legal questions to my lawyer.
I’ll let the documents speak for themselves.
I’m not comfortable responding without legal review.

When You’re Triggered But Want to Stay Cool
I’m going to pause before I respond.
I’ll respond when I feel calm.
I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.
I’m taking space to process.
I’m choosing peace over reaction.
I’ll wait to respond until I’m regulated.
I’m walking away from this exchange for now.
Let’s not do this right now.
I’m stepping away from the phone.
This isn’t a good moment to talk.

Final Power Closers
I’m clear on where I stand.
Let me know if something changes.
Let’s revisit this if needed, not now.
I’ve said everything I need to.
There’s nothing more to add.
We can agree to disagree.
This conversation is complete.
I’m ending this thread here.
I’m choosing peace. Take care.

On the surface, it looked perfect. Underneath, I felt the shift.

Then the rupture.

The split between one life and the next. The before and after. The moment you don’t recognize as an ending until you’re sitting in it…on your front porch.

What followed wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t glamorous. It was survival. I woke up, made breakfast, packed lunches, got the kids to school. I smiled when I had to, cried when I couldn’t help it, and kept their routines intact.

On the outside, I looked steady. Inside, I was unraveling.

Survival doesn’t look heroic. It looks like showing up anyway.

Those early days taught me this: when life collapses, you don’t rebuild all at once. You keep moving. One meal. One drive. One small act of holding it together until the next.

Piece by piece, I started to rebuild myself too.

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The Word That Saved Me

Someone handed me a word that changed everything: bifurcate.

It means splitting emotion from strategy. Holding heartbreak in one hand and clarity in the other.

Tears in the shower. Strategy on the phone. That’s bifurcation.

Divorce has no do-overs. Every choice gets baked in.

You won’t nail it every time. You’ll cry mid-call. You’ll rage mid-email. That’s human. But the more you practice setting feelings down long enough to make a smart move, the stronger that muscle gets.

Bifurcation isn’t about being cold. It’s about protecting your future self.

You can walk into mediation with strategy in hand, and walk out straight into your girlfriends’ arms. Both are you doing you.

Three Things I’d Do on Day One

Once you understand bifurcation, you’re ready for action. Here are the first three moves I wish I’d had in my pocket.

1. Take a Financial Snapshot Before It Vanishes

Open everything. Checking. Savings. Credit cards. Retirement. Investments. Mortgages. Auto loans. Business accounts. Screenshot balances. Download statements. Save tax returns. Photograph paper files.

Think beyond the obvious: insurance policies, trust documents, stock options, payroll portals, CPA records, Venmo, PayPal. Anything showing money in or out.

Screenshots are receipts. Paperwork is protection.

Get credit reports for both of you. They will expose accounts you didn’t know existed. Check whose name is on the deed, the mortgage, and the car titles. Write it down.

This isn’t paranoia. This is your baseline. Numbers will move. Access will get restricted. You need proof of what existed that day.

The court doesn’t care what you believe. It cares what you can prove.

2. Lock the Digital Doors

Change every password. Email. Apple ID. Google. Venmo. PayPal. Amazon. YouTube. Netflix. Spotify. Banking apps. Brokerages. Insurance portals. All of it.

If you have shared devices, sign out everywhere. Remove profiles from TVs, gaming consoles, laptops. Check every tablet and phone. Make sure texts, emails, and photos aren’t syncing where they shouldn’t.

Every device is a door. Close them all.

Then check the side doors: browser autofill, saved payment info, auto logins in Chrome or Safari, shared calendars, family photo albums, Alexa shopping lists, car Bluetooth storing contacts, WiFi routers tied to shared accounts.

Audit payments. Remove old cards. Turn off one-click checkout.

This isn’t hiding. This is privacy. Your money, your accounts, your identity belong to you now.

You don’t owe access to anyone. Not anymore.

3. Get Clear on What’s Yours

House. Cars. Accounts. Policies. Titles. Deeds. Write it down. Collect paperwork. Print copies.

Ownership is leverage. Know where you stand.

Don’t skim. Become a detective. Look at life insurance beneficiaries. Investment ownership. Trust clauses. Partnership agreements. If you don’t know, ask. If you can’t get answers, flag it for your attorney.

Because assumptions don’t count in court. Only proof does.

Clarity is power. Guesswork is weakness.

This Isn’t Self-Help

There are plenty of self-help books out there. This isn’t one of them. This is what to do when it’s go time.

These three moves are only the beginning. The full playbook is coming, packed with the power moves I had to learn the hard way.

👉 Want in? Sign up here to get first access when it drops.

XX- Jen

Then comes the crash. The 90-mph-into-a-brick-wall kind of crash, when your marriage explodes into a million little pieces. Suddenly, you’re forced into newness. The way you once navigated your world doesn’t work anymore. It’s like when you log into your Netflix account and see what your ex is watching with his new flame. Gut punch. But it forces a reset.

And just like a Saturday-morning hangover, the emotional ones hit even harder.
They sneak up. They flatten you. They make you rethink every choice you ever made.

I leaned all the way into emotional hangovers. Brutal, every time.

But here’s the thing: if you can survive an emotional hangover, you start to realize you can survive yourself. You can sit in the mess, feel every wave of it, and still move through, like a queen. So maybe next time you’re about to order that old-fashioned, remind yourself: if I can handle how vomit-y I’ll feel tomorrow morning, I can handle my emotions, too.

According to Charlie Health, “An emotional hangover … is the aftermath of a traumatic or otherwise draining emotional encounter.” It can make you feel mentally and physically depleted, akin to an alcoholic hangover, even though no alcohol was consumed.

Now, several years post-divorce, I’ve got this ritual down like I won Wimbledon on a random Tuesday. After all those emotional hangovers, I learned to make space for processing instead of numbing out.

It’s not cracking open a Mexican Coke and crushing Shake Shack cheese fries at 9 a.m., that cure belongs to last night’s regret.

I’ll never forget the first time I realized, oh shit, I need to pause. To figure out how to process this. To actually sit with it. Total paralysis. Something happens that strips away all your familiar crutches, and suddenly you have no choice but to face it all. Everything becomes so fucking clear, like putting in brand-new contacts.

So there I was, sitting on my bed in my post-divorce house, thinking: Oh my god. I’m gonna have to actually start working through this. It wasn’t some grand life event…that “one” was already in major process mode with the professionals; it was a dumb little text from a guy I was dating, but my old patterns rose straight to the surface. And the beautiful thing was: I could name it. Oh hell yeah. And that’s the key.

No one wants to sit in any type of hangover. However, knowing when you’re in the midst of an emotional one and recognizing the full-blown tipping point can be one of the most powerful acts of self-awareness. So lean in, baby. Let’s walk through what happens…

When do emotional hangovers hit?
Really, after any traumatic or emotionally loaded event, big or small.

A breakup
A loss or death
An accident
A painful text
A work exchange
A misunderstood email
A fight with your partner, family, or friends
Getting ghosted
The kind of silence that feels louder than words
A rejection: romantic, professional, or social
Financial stress or a sudden bill you weren’t expecting (hello, surprise lawyer invoice)
Hearing news you weren’t ready for
Old wounds resurfacing in therapy
Even good overwhelm, like weddings, births, or huge life changes
Scrolling social and seeing something you wish you hadn’t

Basically, anything that hijacks your nervous system, cracks open old patterns, or just knocks the wind out of you can set off an emotional hangover.

What it shows up as…
Paralysis
Brain fog
Fatigue
Dissociation
Headaches
Anxiety
Ruminating
Isolation

Look, I’m no doctor. But when healing comes swinging, this is the aftermath.

How it showed up for me in the beginning…
It was a lot of: huh? really? hmm? for real? are you fucking kidding me? oh, hell no.
Cue the phone calls to my girlfriends. Long baths. Cocooning in bed. Bad TV on repeat. Protecting my energy. Guarding my space, my sleep, my quiet. Journaling every exchange. Pulling tarot cards. Writing through the moments when I just wanted to shut down and go silent.

How I coped and still do…
I leaned all the way in.

Brutal, yes. But the real power is in walking out of the mess anyway. Honestly, it still beats a 2 a.m. last call.

And here’s the thing: “emotional hangover” isn’t even in the Merriam-Webster dictionary. Yet.
Maybe it’s time we invite them to the party…

Let’s set the stage. Because if we’re going to talk about ghosting, we have to talk about avoidance first.

The first memories I have of true, body locking avoidance hit me in college. Not just procrastination, I am talking about the kind of debilitating paralysis where you literally cannot move forward. I was a master self saboteur. As successful as I am today, man, I struggled. I had anxiety just walking into a studio art class to the point of skipping it, dropping classes, and dragging out college way longer than it should have taken.

What I have unpacked now is that part of it came from doing life alone. Yes, ultimately you are responsible for your own follow throughs. But not having a support system in those defining years made it tougher to commit. There was no anchor, no one nudging me forward when I froze. And when no one is there to hold the line with you, slipping into avoidance becomes the easy path. Recognizing that pattern is exactly how I started breaking it.

Now in therapy, I have come to accept that I procrastinate. But hey, I am project based. Always have been in my adult professional life. And honestly? It has served me fucking well. Like, so well that now I own it. I ebb and flow. I know when to lock in and pull long hours, and I know when to step back. The first part is awareness, right? Then you lean the fuck in… accept it and get to work.

If you are reading this thinking, Nah, this does not apply to me… yeah, it probably does if you’re thinking just that.

So lock in, cowboy. Time for the rodeo.

I am sure there were plenty of examples of avoidance in childhood too, but I have conveniently or maybe mercifully erased those. My memory of earlier years is patchy at best, like someone ripped whole chapters out of the book. Trauma has a way of doing that.

Sometimes I look back at photos from my early twenties, me wandering through Europe, smiling in the middle of a festival field, blurry late night bus rides, and I do not remember a single snapshot. Not the taste of the food, not how jet lagged I was, not even the good times. Little did I know I was actually dancing with suppression.

What I do know is this: our nervous systems are sneaky. They will fight, they will flee, and sometimes they will just switch the lights off completely. Avoidance is its own kind of survival tactic.

So it goes something like this… I write fast, sloppy, shorthand in my journals. And while I am not going to unload my private five page diatribe to my ghost, here is the gist of it:

Dear Ghost:

Who hurt you?
Who hurt you so badly that you thought it was normal to hurt me?

That’s the real question. What I’ve come to see is this: when someone never heals their own wounds, they don’t keep them contained. They hand them off.

Avoidance isn’t strength. It’s unfinished business.

It leaks into every connection that comes after. The closeness they’re afraid of, they withhold from you. The pain they’ve been carrying, they unload as silence, distance, disappearance. I know because I’ve been there.

Avoidance happens when intimacy or bonding or growth gets cut off too young. It could be so many moments…parental neglect, a household that does not hold space for your own emotional safety, a family splitting up, a critical role model. When the ground never felt steady, closeness starts to feel dangerous instead of safe. And if you love someone like that, you don’t just deal with them you’re also dealing with every ghost of the people who hurt them first.

So your avoidance becomes your protection.

For me, I trace it back to losing my dad so young. At six years old, your brain cannot process a rupture like that. You do not make sense of it, you just protect yourself. You build walls, you disappear into being the good kid, you shrink your world so it cannot fall apart again. My nervous system wrote a rule book: if I do not get too close, nothing can leave. If I do not finish, it cannot be judged. If I vanish first, I cannot be abandoned. You can’t hurt me if I can hurt you first.

That was my blueprint for survival. That explains my why.

And then it hit me while writing my latest letter. FUCK. This was STILL an unhealed part of myself that needed to surface, move through, and say bye bye Felicia to. My avoidance, which I have moved mountains to grind down into fragments, resurfaced. It was not to wreck me, but to remind me there was still more to move through.

Oh god. And still, listening to myself even today while writing this substack, I knew this already. That is the thing about self work. The activations never fully go away. But you learn how to manage them. How to not be so reactive, but to honor them and move through them. And I could not be more proud of you and me for doing it.

The Basics

In relationships
• The thing you still need to move through will show up for you to heal. It is yours alone. Accept it. Release it. It sucks but you’ll literally be like…oh, boy! here we go again! Time to burn this up for good.
• When they show up avoidant, what they do about it is on them. It is not yours to fix, soothe, or explain away just to keep the union intact.

How to do it differently this time
• Remember the two points above. When your anxiety spikes, do not engage. Choose you.
• Most people with avoidant partners lean into anxious attachment and scramble to fix. This is the moment you do not fix.
• If an avoidant wants to come to you, let them. It is not your job to lure them in.

If you need a 101
Start with Attached by Amir Levine and Rachel S. F. Heller, one of my top five relationship books.

So here’s the thing. Face this for you. Write the letter, name the ghost, call out the pattern. Whatever it takes. Not for the person who ghosted you, not for the version of yourself that kept looping the same story, not for the life you thought you were supposed to live. For you. For your ghost. Hell, give her a name if it helps.

If you need a reminder, a cheat sheet, or a place to come back when the anxiety hits, start here. Reread this. Highlight the lines that feel like truth. Write it out on a post-it. Take a screen shot. Tell your girlfriends to remind you…Whatever you do, remember this: you come first.

Because at the end of the day, the work is not about them. It is not about fixing, chasing, or proving. It is about choosing yourself every single time.

Let’s finish the job.

XX- Jen

There’s something about the noise, the bad music blaring from a half-broken speaker, and the sawdust in the air that makes me feel more alive than any yoga retreat or green juice ever could. Demo day does things to me I can’t explain. I must’ve been a master architect in the Roman Empire, because nothing else in life gets me this unreasonably excited. Candlelight dinners? For sure.

But hand me a wall to tear down and I’ll be home before dessert.

And here’s the truth: I know I shouldn’t always start another project. Logic tells me to stop. Wait. Rest. But logic has never stood a chance against the itch to create.

Because a project isn’t just drywall and sawdust, it’s potential. It’s the dream of what could exist if you’re willing to do the work. And love is no different. The attraction might be the spark, the intoxicating high of “what if” but that fades if no one sticks around to continue the project.

The people closest to me get it. They know the fastest way to my heart is to build something. Together. Not just the fun, messy part of tearing it all down, but the long haul of shaping it into something worth keeping. God, I love the process. Most people can’t stomach the long play. I live for it. Because I know the ending is always worth the dust.

I mean really…new love and committed love are the same project. Different phases, same blueprint. Demo is exciting, but commitment is where the real design takes shape.

And while yes, that sounds cliché, here’s the breakdown:

1. Every House, Every Relationship = A Gut Reno

Don’t romanticize it. Nobody buys a house thinking, “Oh joy, can’t wait to replace the cracked foundation!” Same with relationships. We fall hard for the pretty porch, not the busted pipes hiding underneath.

But here’s the truth: every relationship exposes the parts of you that are unrenovated. Your partner becomes that rigid inspector pointing out where you’ve cut corners, even if you don’t know it. You think you’re fighting about dishes, or dinner, or who left the laundry in the dryer but you’re really fighting about your chidhood trauma.

And as I always say to my therapist: it was never about the tofu.

And trust me, I’m tired of these self lessons. Really I am. I’ll look at other people’s marriages and think, damn, they’re not having to “learn” anything right now. They’re just coasting, doing brunch, posting vacation photos, living in their version of a house with no leaks.

But then I shift perspective.

I get to figure this out.
I get to do it right this time.
I get to commit to a loving, compassionate relationship. One that doesn’t just look good on the outside but is wicked solid underneath.

Because that’s the difference between a flip and a forever home. One is just for show. The other is built to last.

2. Maintenance = Love in Action

Demo is sexy. Instagram loves a before-and-after. But the part no one wants to do? Maintenance.

The boring, unglamorous stuff: cleaning gutters, resealing grout, battling those damn ants, swapping HVAC filters. Nobody posts that on Pinterest, but skip it long enough and the whole thing caves.

Same with love. Maintenance is the text in the middle of the day. It’s staying curious instead of defensive. It’s the small, unphotogenic acts that keep things running. Couples who don’t “do maintenance” become like abandoned houses. So shiny in old photos, collapsing in real time.

If you want the house or the love to last, you don’t wait for the roof to leak before you care.

3. Commit (Young Pueblo Said It Better)

I just finished Yung Pueblo’s How to Love Better, and it put words to what I’ve been hearing in every conversation with women lately. We talk. We analyze. We swap horror stories and hope. And the theme is always the same:

Show. Up.

Not halfway. Not just when you’re in the mood. Not when the dust settles. Every day. Show up when it’s inconvenient. Show up when you’re wrong. Show up when it would be easier to scroll your way out of intimacy.

Because if you don’t, your relationship turns into a half-reno: walls knocked down, chaos everywhere, but nobody ever finishes the job.
And then there’s nothing left to do but sell the house.

So in the end…there’s beauty in the demo.

I’ve never met an old house I didn’t love more than a brand-new spec. Same with people. Give me someone with history, layers, scars, and stories over a cookie-cutter soul any day. I’d actually vomit if I had to live in a beige-on-beige, no-character build or worst, date one.

And maybe that’s the point. There’s beauty in the messy.

Demo is where you decide how far you want to go. What to rip out. What to keep. What kind of world you want to create together.

So find a partner who wants to build. And if you already have one? Hell yeah! I’m cheering you on.

As for me? I can’t wait to meet mine.

XX- Jen

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And don’t get me wrong, I loved marriage. I fucking loved it. I loved the commitment, the family unit, the ritual of it all. I was good at it. For someone like me, an only child who lost my larger-than-life dad at the age of six, the ability to start my own family felt like winning the lottery.

I still love marriage. And I look forward to being married again one day.

So what do you do when that idea of heaven breaks in two? When you have no tools, no roadmap…just yourself, naked on the shower floor while the water is still running, knowing your two beautiful children need to be fed, dressed, and out the door for school?

You start small.

And I don’t mean this to be depressing or gut-wrenching. What it’s really about is getting back to the basics and how the basics can TRULY SAVE YOUR LIFE. Small steps, stacked over time, become a new way forward.

If I go back to those first gut-punch days, weeks, and months, here’s what I’d want you to know: if you’re on the verge of saying, “Oh shit, I’ve really got to do this…” you can.

Without being a psychologist, I know one thing for sure: everyone reacts differently when trauma hits. Some people avoid it altogether. They bury themselves in work, in distractions, in anything that keeps them from feeling. Others charge at it head-on, desperate to fix or control what feels broken, almost like if they can “do” enough, they won’t have to sit with the pain. And then there are those who shut down completely, frozen under the weight of it all like their nervous system just hits the brakes.

If you’ve ever read about attachment styles, you’ll recognize the echoes: avoiders who turn away (*I can’t wait to dive into this soon), fixers who lean in too hard, and the ones who collapse under pressure.

Looking back, my own ‘frozen’ phase lasted close to nine months. And that was just the paralysis, not the heartbreak or the slow work of healing. After more than 20 years in a relationship, it takes a long time to accept that kind of loss.

None of it is wrong. It’s just survival.

And for me? I broke wide open.

And while it was the messiest option of them all, it forced me to feel everything I’d been running from and address everything… and I mean EVERYTHING. The feelings and patterns I couldn’t name, couldn’t understand, couldn’t see clearly. It was time to do the work and get to the core of my own shortcomings. Breaking open meant I couldn’t hide, I couldn’t numb. I had to strip it all back and rebuild piece by piece. It wasn’t pretty, but it was the doorway to something real.

There’s a strange quiet that shows up when your life splits. The phone looks blurry. Food tastes like cardboard. The sunshine feels too bright. But if you’re lucky, you have your people. That’s the first ping of hope. They don’t give advice. Not a plan. Just presence. They just hold you and your children. The women who’ve walked this shitty path before and even the ones who haven’t, sit beside IT and beside YOU until you can stand. That’s what saved me at the start: women who didn’t require me to make sense, who didn’t need a tidy timeline, who were comfortable with the ugly middle. Comfortable with this new normal.

Unlike my marriage, they stayed. And they weren’t going anywhere.

They found ways to step in. My dear friend Wendy had me over for dinner like it was routine. No asking, no fuss. I think I spent half the time not speaking, she just feed me. She’s also the reason I have my life-changing therapist to this day. Erin let me crawl into her bed and just be. She’d gone through a high-profile divorce herself, so no words were needed. We both just knew. It’s a weird club to be in (one you never want to join) but when you’re in it, you get it. That’s the thing about women who’ve walked through heartbreak: you don’t need language. You just need someone who won’t leave.

And while I don’t consider myself basic, as silly as it sounds, I had to start from zero. BASIC GIRL 101, let’s go. Day by day, things looked almost embarrassingly simple. I’d been the high-functioning working mom, the one who loved her career, loved building the family empire, and loved (and still loves) being a mom more than anything.

And let’s not forget, I lived a very public life. But at my core I am a truly private person. So navigating a high-profile divorce in secret…well, that’s its own mind-blowing story that to this day still remains under lock and key.

But in those early days? Oh my fuck. I couldn’t even get dressed. Couldn’t get out of bed. Sure, the ten pounds I dropped looked great on the outside, but let’s be honest, it wasn’t healthy. I didn’t even have ten pounds to lose.

That’s why before we even begin to talk about how to move forward financially, legally, or any of that…you have to start with grace. Start with taking care of your sweet babies, if you have them, and start taking care of you. Start with new rituals, even tiny ones.

There were a few things we did every single day in our household just to make it through. And as I write them now, they sound so basic.

But here’s the thing: basic is what works.

Basic feels like a new, safe space. And it is.

The Small Things That Saved Me

Therapy (for me, for my kids).
I didn’t run to therapy because I wanted to. I went because I couldn’t do this alone. I needed support. Ask for help. There is no shame in therapy. It wasn’t about being “fixed.” Although the deep dives eventually came. But in the beginning it was about having a safe place to fall apart—and showing my kids that healing is normal.

Gratitude—forced at first, real later.
I wasn’t journaling to be cute. I was journaling to survive. At night, with my kids, we’d name the smallest comforts “We’re together. That ice cream tonight was delicious. We have a comfy bed to sleep in.” That practice rewired me. And eventually over time the gratitude list turned into profound moments of compassion and empathy. To this day I am still humbled by the depths of my children’s awareness. If you need help starting, this gratitude journal was my anchor.

Morning and Night Time Rituals (non-negotiable).
My mornings used to be rushed. But post-divorce, survival looked like opening the windows immediately, dimming the lights, and playing soft music before I could talk myself into staying in bed. It sounds tiny, but it shifted the whole day.

Talk to your people.
The right people never think you’re “too much.” I spent hours in my den after the kids went to bed, talking to my girlfriends on the phone. Every night. It saved me. They never made me feel like too much or never got off the call before I was ready to do so. Community heals what silence can’t.

Move your body. Get outside.
Not for steps. Not for a six-pack. Just to feel alive. Some days it was a short walk down to the beach. Other days, it was sitting under our olive tree with the dogs. Sunlight doesn’t solve everything, but it damn sure helps.

Journaling.
There’s no right or wrong way to do it. Some days it was a brain dump of everything swirling in my head. Other days it was just a list of things I wish I’d done differently or a lesson I was trying to unpack. Sometimes it was one line, sometimes five pages. The point wasn’t to write beautifully, it was to get the weight out of my body and onto paper. This one is my favorite and I’m still writing daily.

Breaking wide open wasn’t pretty but these small things held me together.

And if you’re there now, wondering how you’ll possibly do it: start here.

Because the truth is, basic works. Basic is beautiful.

And all the small things? They’re never small at all.

xx- Jen

This is where design meets wealth. Where we learn from houses, apply it to life, and build millions.

Every week, I’ll show you how the same principles that make a house valuable… reset, equity, presentation, and timing are the same ones that can turn you into a wealth-building machine. It’s about designing a life (and bank account) you love.

From Divorce to Design

When my marriage ended, my family broke apart, and everything I thought was solid… wasn’t.

So I did something I know well: I bought a house.

Not because I needed more square footage. But because I needed a foundation that was mine. A place to rebuild, reimagine, and reset.

The “before” was heavy, dated, and full of someone else’s story.

But then came the after glow.

That home wasn’t a downgrade. It was proof. Proof that value can be reimagined. That you can strip something down, reframe it, and rebuild it into something brighter than the original.

And I realized: that’s not just how houses work. That’s how WE work.

The Bigger Picture

When I bought that house, I wasn’t just finding four walls.
I was learning a truth I now live by:

Value isn’t fixed. It’s created.

With vision, reframing, consistency, and smart investment, anything…a home, a life, a woman post-divorce can multiply.

Walls came down and the light came through. Kinda like a good therapy session.

Because every transformation has a before… and an after.

What You’ll Get Here

And that’s exactly what this newsletter is about. Each week, I’ll share:

✨ Design Resets. How to spot potential in spaces (and yourself) and transform them with intention.
✨ Money Moves. Simple, smart shifts that quietly build wealth without overwhelm.
✨ Life Lessons from Houses. Because equity, presentation, and timing apply just as much to your future as they do to real estate.

Think of it as a mix of design inspo, financial strategy, and personal reinvention all tied together by the belief that what looks stuck can always be reset.

Your First Step

If today’s story hit home (pun intended 😉), you’ll love The Reset Sprint™ a quick, doable framework to reset your space, money, and mindset.

It’s like the first coat of paint: instant transformation, huge payoff. And it sets you up for the bigger remodel.

👉 Join the waitlist here

Thanks for being here at the very start. This is just the beginning.
And I can’t wait to build this house (and this life) with you.

xx,
Jennifer