When I Can’t Control Life, I Fix Furniture

Some people run. Some people bake. I go into the garage, find the most beat-up piece of furniture I can carry, and start sanding.

It’s not about perfection. It’s about process.

When the world feels loud, when people are unpredictable, when my next step is unclear—I turn toward something I can shape. Something quiet. Something still.

Wood doesn’t talk back. It doesn’t ghost you or change its mind mid-sentence. It doesn’t ask for more than it needs. It just waits to become.

There’s something holy about fixing what’s been discarded.

A forgotten table, a splintered chair, a dresser left on the curb—those are my people. Scratched up, wobbly, a little out of place. But still useful. Still beautiful. Still worthy of time and care.

When I’m stripping old paint, I’m also peeling back stories.

I’m letting go of what no longer serves. I’m breathing through the effort. I’m not fixing it because it was broken—I’m fixing it because it deserves more than being left behind.

Furniture isn’t fast.

Neither is healing. Neither is change.

Both require patience, presence, and the courage to trust that what looks like a mess is actually mid-transformation.

This is why I started Found & Forged—to document the way our hands know the way home, even when our minds feel scattered.

To remember that even when life feels wild, I am still a maker. Still someone who can bring something back to life.

So when I can’t control life, I fix furniture.

And in doing so, I remember that I’m not lost—I’m just building.