By: Janelle Brown
Building a house is one of those things people talk about like it’s a finish line. You cross it, the ribbon breaks, and suddenly everything is perfect. The truth? It’s more like a long hike with a really great view at the top and a few wrong turns, sore feet, and deep breaths along the way. Still, I can honestly say this season of my life has been one of the most exciting, grounding, and meaningful chapters yet.
For the first time, I’m not just building a house. I’m building my house. And alongside it, I’m planting the roots of Taeda Farms, something that feels just as much like home as the walls rising from the dirt.
There’s something incredibly powerful about watching an idea go from a dream to a drawing to an actual structure standing in front of you. I’ve lived in a lot of places. I’ve adapted, adjusted, compromised, and made things work. That’s not a bad thing, it’s a skill. This is the first time I’ve been able to build something intentionally, thoughtfully, and fully for me. No negotiations. No trying to make everyone else comfortable first. Just asking myself one simple question over and over: Does this feel like home to me?
Turns out, that question is both freeing and a little terrifying.
When you’ve spent a lifetime making space for other people, you don’t always realize how much of yourself you’ve tucked away. Choosing finishes, layouts, and décor might sound small, but it’s surprisingly emotional. Every decision feels like a quiet declaration: This matters. I matter.
And honestly? That’s been really healing.
What’s made this process especially meaningful is how much of my life has found its way into the design. This house isn’t tied to one place or one era, but it’s a collection of everywhere I’ve been and everything I’ve learned along the way. Each room carries a little history, a little memory, a little “oh yeah, that’s why I love that.”
There are nods to wide open spaces and practical layouts, because I’ve always appreciated functionality. Beauty is great, but if it doesn’t work for real life, I’m not interested. There are warm textures and natural materials that remind me of grounding, slower seasons. There are cozy corners inspired by places where I learned the value of quiet. And there’s light, lots of it, because I’ve learned how important it is to let light in, both literally and figuratively.
Decorating this home has felt less like following trends and more like telling a story. My story. Some pieces are brand new, chosen carefully and intentionally. Others are inspired by places I’ve lived, landscapes I’ve loved, and chapters that shaped me. It’s a patchwork in the best possible way, nothing flashy, nothing forced. Just honest.
And then there’s Taeda Farms.
Starting the farm alongside building the house feels symbolic in a way that’s hard to put into words. A house gives you shelter, but land gives you perspective. It reminds you to be patient. You can’t rush growth. You prepare the soil, plant the seeds, and trust the process, even when nothing seems to be happening yet.
That lesson has shown up in my own life more times than I can count.
Taeda Farms isn’t just about what we’ll grow there. It’s about creating something sustainable, something rooted, something that requires care and commitment. There’s a rhythm to farm life that forces you to slow down and pay attention. Weather matters. Timing matters. Effort matters. And control? Well, that’s mostly an illusion.
There’s something incredibly comforting about that.
I’ve found so much joy in the simplicity of it all, walking the land, imagining what it will become, understanding that this is a long game. It’s not about instant results. It’s about showing up consistently and trusting that growth will come in its own time.
In a lot of ways, building this house and starting Taeda Farms mirrors the inner work I’ve been doing for years. Learning who I am outside of roles. Learning what I want, and not what’s expected, not what’s easiest, but what’s true. Learning that independence doesn’t mean isolation, and choosing yourself doesn’t mean abandoning others.
It just means honoring your own needs, too.
There have been moments of doubt, of course. Moments where the logistics feel overwhelming or the timeline stretches longer than expected. Moments where I wonder if I’m doing it “right.” But then I step back and look at what’s being built, both physically and emotionally, and I remember why I started.
This isn’t about perfection. It’s about alignment.
This house is a reflection of where I am now: grounded, intentional, open, and hopeful. Taeda Farms represents the future I’m growing into...one rooted in patience, purpose, and possibility. Together, they symbolize something I’ve worked hard for: a life that feels like mine.
And maybe that’s the biggest surprise of all. Not the walls, not the land, not even the fresh start, but the quiet confidence that comes from finally choosing yourself and building something that supports who you truly are.
Turns out, home isn’t just a place you live. It’s a place you finally let yourself belong.
