There’s this picture I keep coming back to in my mind: a proper shed, a workshop that’s not just for storage but for me. A place to weld, paint, make things, lose myself in the rhythm of creating without neighbours peering in or the weather cutting it short. Right now my shed is small, functional, and ugly — it does the job, but it doesn’t give me that sense of pride or privacy. It feels temporary.

What I really want is something lasting. Timber, solid, something I build on a proper base that will stand for twenty-five years. Something that adds to the garden, adds to the home, but also adds to me — a space to retreat, recharge, and express.

When I picture myself in that future shed, I feel relaxed in my own space. No one can say anything. I’m not making loud noise at unreasonable hours. I can just make a mess, build things, and let projects unfold without pressure. I’ve never had enough space to simply allow that, and I’ve never really felt “deserving” or skilful enough to have my own workshop. But that belief doesn’t make sense anymore. This is part of what I need for my life to feel whole.

If my son walked into that space one day, I’d want him to feel that it was mine — a place of self-care and creativity — but also that I was inviting him into it, sharing a piece of my inner world. I’d want him to see me tinkering, creating, showing that life can be good even if you don’t have everything in terms of family or a high-paying job. That you can still find joy, still trust that things will work out eventually. He will face his own hard times, and I want to model a kind of resilience that doesn’t deny difficulty but still creates spaces of strength and enjoyment.

I realise that it is the free child in me who longs for this shed: the playful, curious, imaginative part of myself that wants permission to create. But giving that child space to breathe and explore is also part of being a healthy adult. It’s how I become more balanced — not shutting down that energy, but channeling it.

The critical voice in me says, “No one will love you if your work isn’t perfect.” But I don’t believe it anymore. The truth is, I am loved in the doing, in the showing up, in the care I put into each piece, even if it’s rough around the edges. The fence I built isn’t perfect, but it’s mine. The decking will be the same. And one day, the shed too.

So for now, I hold the vision. A square base, extended in spring. A timber workshop rising out of it. Tools on the wall. Light in the window. Privacy, space, freedom. A place where projects can unfold without rush, without judgement. A shed not just for things, but for me.