The Longing to Rebuild and the Doubt That Follows
The first and last time I walked through the halls of Oakhurst Manor, I wasn’t prepared for how deeply it would imprint on me.
The ceilings were sagging. The soot still clung to the walls. There were places too unstable to step. But even in all that decay, she had a presence, a spirit. I could feel it in the silence. Something sacred. Something broken. Something still alive.
That walk-through, just a few weeks ago, was my only time inside. And it’s a memory I can’t stop turning over in my mind.
Because now I know what I didn’t want to know, she has to come down.
It Hit Me Harder Than I Expected
The last 24 hours have undone me. Not because of surprise but because of what this truth has stirred in me. I thought I was ready. I thought I had accepted that this might be the outcome. But I wasn’t ready for the grief. Or the doubt. Or the whispering questions that now loop endlessly in my head:
Is this still meant to be?
Or am I forcing something that doesn’t want to be forced?
How do I honor this land—really honor it—without trying to control the outcome?
Why me? Why now? And how on earth do I carry this?
Because if I’m honest, really honest, giving up would be easier. Walking away from the complexity, the cost, the emotion, the fear of “doing it wrong”… it would be easier than standing here, heart split open, trying to rebuild something I can’t even fully name yet.
But That’s the Thing About Foundations
To rebuild something that matters, you have to let it fall first. All the way down. Not just the roof. Not just the exterior. To the bones. To the base. To the truth beneath everything.
And as I sit with the truth that the manor must be stripped to her foundation… I can’t help but think of my own. Because I’ve lived this before. There was a time when life brought me to my knees. When everything I built up around myself, my coping, my protection, my identities, had to be torn away. Addiction. Burnout. Grief. It all crumbled.
And in the aftermath, I had to learn how to live again. From the inside out. From a place that was quiet, scared, honest, and somehow… ready. And that’s where I feel like I am again now. Right at the edge of something I can’t yet define. Scared. Honest. And maybe still… somehow ready.
The Manor Is Not Just a Project. She’s a Mirror.
She was once the heart of this town, proud, beloved, full of life. Then she became a place of harm. Then, a forgotten relic. And now, she is standing in her final hours, waiting not for preservation, but for something far more sacred: release.
She’s not asking to be saved. She’s asking to be seen.
And I wonder… can I really do that?
Can I honor the shadow parts of her story?
Can I rebuild something not from ambition, but from reverence?
Can I trust that I don’t need to have all the answers to begin?
The Doubt Is Real. The Grief Is Real. But So Is the Invitation.
I won’t pretend to be confident right now. I won’t pretend I know what every next step will look like. But I know this: When you are called to something bigger than yourself, it won’t always feel good. It won’t always feel clear. It won’t always feel possible. But it will feel true.
And I still believe this vision, Thrivewell Estate, is true.
I still believe this land is meant to become a place of restoration, learning, beauty, and community. Not just for the sake of the past, but for the future we still have a chance to shape.
So I’m Still Here. With My Doubt. With My Grief. With My Heart.
I will keep walking this land. I will keep listening. I will keep asking the hard questions, especially the ones that begin with “how?”
Because the truth is: I don’t know how I’m going to do this. But I know I can’t unsee what I saw in that house. I can’t unknow the feeling I had standing in that doorway. And I can’t forget the way it felt to almost touch what she could’ve become—if I had gotten to her just a little sooner.
So I will do what I’ve done before:
Strip it all down.
Get honest.
Let it be hard.
And trust that, somehow, the way will rise to meet me.
With love, doubt, and still…hope,
Kelley