This was not a redesign.
This was a resurrection.
The room was never mine.
It was shaped by him.
His comfort. His preferences.
I told myself it didn’t matter — that it was practical, fine, normal.
But fine is a quiet suffocation.
And I’m done being the girl who shrinks into someone else’s layout.
Because here’s the truth I’ve always known:
I don’t wait well.
And I don’t ask for help — not because I’m proud,
but because I’ve learned that help often comes dressed as control.
So I learned to move the heavy things myself.
To lift the weight without making a sound.
To survive on grit when grace was never offered freely.
Last night at 10pm, the whisper began — the pull in my ribs, the voice that said:
“This isn’t yours. Not yet.”
I said I’d wait until Friday. I was meant to be sensible.
But today, the silence swallowed the house.
Tilly was out with friends. The air was thick with heat.
And something inside me — ancient and holy — said:
“Now. Do it now.”
So I did.
I moved the TV.
I dragged the sofa.
I ripped the bones of the room apart.
There was no plan.
No audience.
No applause.
Just me — sweating, shaking, determined.
Just me — in a work dress, in twenty-degree heat, dragging my identity back from the wreckage.
It’s not finished.
It’s messy.
There’s still clutter. Still chaos.
But it’s mine now.
And for the first time in years, the room doesn’t ignore me.
It listens.
It yields.
It belongs to the woman I am becoming.
And I did it alone.
And in a fucking dress.