“Whatever house you build, it will be a house of your own choosing.” — James Hollis

I used to think my life was something that happened to me.

That my childhood shaped me, that my circumstances defined me, that I was simply trying to make the best of what I’d been handed. And in some ways, that’s true — especially when you grow up adapting for survival.

But what Hollis is pointing to here cuts deeper. He’s asking: What if the life you’re living now — the shape of it, the feel of it — is something you’ve been quietly constructing all along? And more importantly: What are you using to build it with?

For a long time, I built with fear. With shame. With a need to prove I was enough. I made choices based on what would please others, what would keep me safe, what would avoid conflict. And I called that maturity.

But it wasn’t. It was repetition. Rebuilding the same old house with the same broken tools — just in different colours.

Now, I’m taking those old bricks down, one by one. Not recklessly. Not with bitterness. But with intention.

Because I don’t want to live in a house that was built on someone else’s beliefs. I want walls made of truth. Floors made of integrity. A roof that doesn’t collapse every time I stop performing.

And I want my son to see that house — not just physically, but emotionally. I want him to know it’s possible to choose again. To stop mid-construction, look at what you’re building, and say: No — not this. Something better.

That’s the work I’m doing now. Not flashy. Not quick. But solid.

A house I can actually live in.