Starting Over... Again...

Murphy — as in Murphy’s Law — has been riding shotgun for a while now. He’s shown up at every wrong moment, knocked over every plan, and kicked dirt on every spark I tried to build. But here’s the thing: Murphy doesn’t get the last word. Not this time. Murphy needs to go find somewhere else to be a pest.

US AND THE HOMESTEAD

7/10/20265 min read

Everything goes quiet

There are times in life when everything goes quiet not peaceful quiet, but the heavy kind that settles over you after an unexpected loss. After my Mom died, the house in New Mexico felt like it was wrapped in fog. I moved through it, numb to the world around me, just going through the motions. Pack a box, tape it shut, stack it, sleep, repeat.

Tess stayed close. At 11 years old, my sweet Boxer girl has been through more of my resets than anyone else. She watched me with those steady, loving brown eyes, eyes that have seen me at my lowest — nights sleeping in the back of my truck, roadside pullouts, cold mornings, long drives. She knew this was another one of those moments.

And I knew it too.

When the Plan Falls Apart

Before everything happened, I had a clear path forward:

Get the septic installed on my Colorado property.

Build out my enclosed cargo trailer into a tiny house.

Move Mom Tess and me to a rented house nearby, and take the trailer to the land and start the homestead build for real.

But grief doesn’t care about plans.

Bills, Medical or otherwise, don’t care about plans.

Life doesn’t care about plans.

Between the elevated expenses in New Mexico, Mom’s ongoing bills, and the cost of moving, my savings vanished. The plan to at least install the septic had to be scrapped. The trailer-to-tiny-house conversion had to be paused. The move to Colorado — the one I’d been working toward for years — suddenly felt out of reach.

And that old fear crept back in:

What if I end up in the back of my truck again?

It was in a word, Hell, and I swore I’d never do that again.

But the possibility was there, staring me down.

I’ve never been good at asking for help. I’ve always been the one who handles things, who fixes things, who carries the load. But this time, the load felt like it was crippling me.

Enter my brother.

My Brother — The Lifeline that has ALWAYS been there

My brother, who has helped me now far more than I could ever repay, and my nephew, who is just an awesome kid in his own right, stepped in without hesitation. He told me to come to Texas. He had a spare bedroom. It was mine if I wanted it. Tess was of course welcome. I didn’t have to face this alone.

And every weekend, they drove four and a half hours down to New Mexico to help me pack. Weekend after weekend. They loaded boxes, hauled furniture, and eventually helped me load the entire house into the cargo trailer, my truck, my Subaru, and his truck.

They didn’t just help me move.

They helped me carry the weight of losing Mom.

When the last box was loaded, I stood in the doorway of Mom’s last home — her final space, her final routines — and I said goodbye.

Then I left it behind.

Starting Over Again — But Not From Zero

Now I’m here in Texas, in my brother’s house. And I’m grateful. Deeply. Being alone during all of this would have been dangerous. But even with that gratitude, I still feel like I’m in the way. Not because they make me feel that way — they insist I’m not — but because I’ve never liked being an imposition.

I’m 53 years old.

This is my fourth time starting over.

And even though I’ve done it before, this one hits different.

I want my own space again. I want to breathe without feeling like I’m taking up someone else’s oxygen. The plan — for now — is the trailer. Once I can convert it, I’ll have my own tiny house. I can park it in my brother’s yard through the winter and travel back and forth to the Colorado property when I need to work on it.

It’s not perfect.

But it’s forward motion.

And right now, forward motion is everything.

The Grind of Starting Over at 53

I’ve put in nearly 40 job applications — remote, local, anything that fits my limitations. I can’t be on my feet constantly, which narrows the field. But I’m trying—every day.

Something has to give.

Right now, I’m driving for Uber. It covers a little. Not much. And my savings — what little was left — is almost gone. My severance is gone. The safety net is gone.

So I’m doing what I’ve always done:

Grinding.

Pushing.

Refusing to quit.

Starting over at 53 sucks. There’s no polite way to say it. But I’m going to stay positive. I’m going to do everything I can to make damned sure this is the last time I have to rebuild from the ground up.

The Homestead Dream Didn’t Die — It Just Got Delayed

Colorado is still waiting, the land is still there, and the dream is still very much alive.

Right now, it’s sitting on the back burner, but it hasn’t gone cold. The tiny house build will happen. The septic will get installed. The garden will be planted. The fencing will go up. The first winter on the land will come. The homestead chapter will begin.

Just not today.

But soon, I made a promise to myself, and a promise to Tess.

Starting over doesn’t mean starting from nothing; it means starting from experience and from scars that taught you something.

Starting over forces you to muster the strength you didn’t know you had until life forced you to find it.

I’m not the same man I was during the first reset.

Or the second.

Or the third.

This time, I’m older - yep, I’m wiser - jury’s still out on that one, and this time, I’m more stubborn - definitely.

This time, I know exactly what I want — and what I won’t tolerate.

And this time, I’m not alone.

I’ve got Tess.

I’ve got my brother.

I’ve got my nephew.

I’ve got the fire that built Fire, Iron & Spice — the same fire that’s carried me through every storm so far.

Hope Is Fuel — Even When Murphy Shows Up

Murphy — as in Murphy’s Law — has been riding shotgun for a while now. He’s shown up at every wrong moment, knocked over every plan, and kicked dirt on every spark I tried to build.

But here’s the thing:

Murphy doesn’t get the last word.

Not this time. Murphy needs to go find somewhere else to be a pest.

Hope is iron.

Hope is the thing that keeps you moving when everything else feels impossible, what makes you pack the house even when you’re numb. It’s what makes you load the trailer even when you’re exhausted, what makes you apply for job number 41.

Hope is what makes you start over — again — at 53 and believe that the next chapter might be the one that finally sticks.

Forward Motion, One Step at a Time

I don’t know exactly what the future looks like yet. But I know this:

I’m moving forward.

I’m rebuilding.

I’m getting back on my feet.

I’m going to make a home for Tess and me on the land in Colorado. And Mom will have her own garden where I plant her favorite oak tree with some of her ashes (she always wanted something like that), so she can watch the sunrise on her mountain every morning.

I’m going to build something stable.

I’m going to create a life that feels like mine again, because starting over isn’t the end.

It’s the beginning — again.

So here I sit in my bedroom in my brother's house, on a warm Texas night, reworking my plan with clearer eyes and a beautiful and loving Boxer dog who refuses to leave my side.

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