“You don’t rebuild because you’ve forgotten the past You rebuild because you remember, and because you still want to live a life that holds joy.”
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Angé’s Story to Begin With
Angé was always remodeling — not just her home, but her life. She didn’t wait for a crisis to begin making things better. Every week, it seemed, we were discussing how to tweak something: how we packed for holidays, how we ran our mornings, how we spoke to each other when tired, how to build little systems that made life smoother and kinder.
She never saw life as fixed. She saw it as something we could shape — always. Her changes weren’t dramatic. They were thoughtful. Practical. Loving. “What would make this easier?” she’d ask. Or, “Is there a better way to do this so we’re both happier?”
That spirit — of gently, constantly remodeling life with purpose — is something I carry with me now. Especially in grief.
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1. You Don’t Return to the Old You — You Begin to Remodel
Grief alters you. There is no going back to the person you were before. And the pressure to “get back to normal” — whether from others or from your own mind — is not only unrealistic, it’s unfair.
You are not returning to a previous version of yourself. That version loved deeply. That version lost deeply. And that version transformed the moment your world broke open.
Remodeling doesn’t ask you to deny the person you were. It asks you to start building around what has changed — not to replace what was, but to respect it.
Think of a house that’s been damaged in a storm. You don’t pretend the damage never happened. You walk through the rooms and make a plan. You patch some things. You tear out others. You build again, sometimes in new ways, sometimes with old bricks — but never with the illusion that nothing changed.
This is what you’re doing. And it takes courage.
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2. The Ache Doesn’t Leave — But It Doesn’t Have to Lead
You are forever marked by this loss. You will always be the person who loved them — and who lost them. That ache is part of you now.
It may soften with time. It may become less constant, less consuming. But it doesn’t vanish. There will be songs. Dates. Smells. Places. Words. Moments — that will bring it roaring back.
And that’s okay.
You’re not broken because it still hurts. You’re not failing because you haven’t “moved on.”
Pain is part of the remodeling material. It shapes the kind of walls you build. The kind of doors you open. The kind of light you let in.
You don’t have to fight the ache. You just don’t have to follow it anymore. Let it walk beside you. Let it speak when it needs to. And then continue, step by step, building a life where joy is also welcome.
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3. Remodeling Is a Lifetime Process
This chapter could easily be called “Remodeling and Remodeling and Remodeling,” because that’s how it works.
There is no final version of your life.
It shifts with new seasons. With new griefs. With fresh joy. With unexpected friendships. With ordinary Tuesdays that start to feel good again.
One year you might find strength in solitude. The next year, you may crave companionship. Some days you’ll want silence. Others, celebration. And so you remodel — again and again — to reflect your current capacity and desire.
This ongoing remodeling isn’t a sign of instability. It’s a sign of aliveness.
You are responding to the reality of your life, not the memory of what once was. You are creating a living space — both physically and emotionally — that makes room for who you are now.
Even small things count: moving a chair, changing a morning ritual, adding a sunflower to your window box. These aren’t meaningless acts — they’re declarations that you are still here, still building, still living.
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4. Happiness Is a Verb — And a Blueprint
Happiness is not something you feel and then act on. It’s something you do, and then sometimes feel.
That’s why in this remodeled life, happiness must become your blueprint — not because it shows up naturally, but because you choose to design your days around it.
Ask yourself:
• What brings me even the smallest spark of peace?
• When do I feel most like myself?
• What rhythm could make this next hour a little more bearable?
Maybe it’s walking each morning. Maybe it’s turning your coffee into a ritual. Maybe it’s reading one poem a day. Maybe it’s calling someone. Maybe it’s silence.
These aren’t distractions from grief. These are acts of design. You are intentionally filling your life with the ingredients of happiness — not to erase pain, but to give joy a place at the table.
Some days, it won’t work. That’s okay. But the act of choosing joy, even when it feels like a whisper, is itself a powerful declaration:
“I am still here. I am still trying. And that matters.”
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5. Grief and Joy Can Coexist
This is not a binary. You do not have to choose.
You can carry grief in your chest and still laugh at something ridiculous.
You can feel the loneliness of absence and still find comfort in a shared story.
You can cry in the morning and dance in the kitchen by nightfall.
We are taught, wrongly, that happiness only comes after the pain is gone. But many of us will live our whole lives with a background hum of grief. And yet, within that, there is still space for joy.
They are not enemies. They are companions. In fact, often, joy only matters because of the grief that came before it.
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6. You’re Not Dishonoring Them by Choosing to Live
This one is important.
There may be moments — especially in the early remodeling — when joy feels like betrayal. When a smile surprises you and guilt follows. When you feel hesitant to make new memories because the old ones still call so loudly.
But hear this clearly:
You are not leaving them behind by living well. You are bringing them with you.
Every joyful act you commit is part of your continued conversation with them. You are saying, “Because you loved me, I still know how to love.” You are saying, “Because of you, I still believe in laughter.” You are saying, “You helped shape me — and I will carry you into every new day.”
Remodeling is not betrayal. It’s gratitude. It’s courage. It’s what they would have wanted for you.
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7. It’s Okay If It Still Feels Hard
Let’s not sugar-coat this. Remodeling is exhausting.
Some days, even thinking about life design is too much. Some weeks, the ache takes over and you just try to survive. You go through the motions. You don’t pick up the hammer. You just sit in the middle of the unfinished house.
That’s okay too.
There is no schedule. There is no pressure to progress. Some remodels take years. Some rooms never get finished. Some corners stay dusty, and some doors stay closed for a very long time.
Still, you are here. You are breathing. And eventually, you will pick up one small item — and move it. One habit. One rhythm. One gesture.
And that will be enough, for now.
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8. What You Build Will Be Beautiful in Its Own Way
This new life you’re creating — it won’t look like the one you had. And that’s not the point.
It will be different. Maybe smaller. Maybe quieter. Maybe fuller in unexpected ways. It might be lonelier in some places, but richer in others.
You’re building it not because you’ve forgotten the person you lost, but because you remember them — and want your life to reflect the value of what you shared.
This new life may be shaped by absence, but it is also filled with presence: yours.
And you are worth the effort of design.
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Conclusion: You Are Not Finished, But You Are Living
You don’t remodel because the pain is gone.
You remodel because life is still happening — and you have a choice in how to meet it.
You can’t rebuild what was. But you can shape what is.
And with each choice — each tweak, each ritual, each burst of laughter — you are not betraying your grief. You are building a life around it.
Not to forget.
But to live.
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Reflective Questions:
1. What part of your life feels most in need of remodeling right now — emotionally, physically, or socially?
2. What is one small action you can take this week to create space for joy?
3. Is there any part of you that feels guilty for living, laughing, or changing? What would your loved one say to that?
4. If you imagined happiness as a blueprint — what does your next room, season, or habit look like?
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Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I look at life as something to shape, not something that just happens. I adjust, I simplify, I ask, “How can I make this better?” I look for joy in the ordinary. I know that small routines matter. And I keep remodelling — because she taught me how.
