This is the fourth dollhouse. After each one, I’ve said I’m done. Not dramatically, just a reasonable conclusion. That was lovely. That was enough. I don’t need to do that again.

And then, somehow, I do.

the eight dollar dilemma

This one started the way many of my projects do; just “stopping by” the thrift store to browse.

I found the house even though I already had another dollhouse in progress at home. That one was moving painfully slowly. I should not have bought another. I knew that. But the house was eight dollars, and I could already feel that familiar tug, the one that has very little to do with logic.

So it came home with me.

the first wrong idea

At first, it was going to be a mousehouse.

Something playful to do with my boys. We added scrapbook paper wallpaper, painted rugs directly onto the floors, made space for our little mouse dolls to live their tiny lives.

After that, the idea fell completely flat.

The boys weren’t interested. I wasn’t inspired. The house just sat there, unfinished in the way that always means something is off creatively.

the week between christmas and new year

Then came that strange, quiet week between Christmas and New Year. The days where time loosens its grip and everything feels slightly suspended. Out of nowhere, I felt the urge to start over.

Starting over meant sanding off the painted rugs. Pulling off the wallpaper. Undoing work that had already been done. There’s always a moment in creative work where you have to decide whether to honor the effort you’ve already put in, or trust your gut it’s not working. I chose my gut.

when the bakery appeared

Once the house was stripped back, the idea arrived almost immediately: a bakery café.

From there, everything moved quickly. I slipped back into my old night owl habits, staying up far too late telling myself I would just add one more detail, tired but happy in the morning up with my early-bird boys and an extra cup of coffee.

losing time and finding flow

When I’m in that state, I lose track of time entirely. I fall asleep thinking about what I’ll do next, and wake up excited to keep going.

It’s a total flow state. Rare, absorbing, and deeply satisfying. The kind that makes the rest of the world feel very far away.

tiny things and inner worlds

I don’t know exactly why miniature worlds do this to me.

Maybe it connects me to the dreamy inner child who loved books about hidden rooms and secret staircases, who was endlessly fascinated by tiny teacups and small, contained worlds. Maybe it’s a way of accessing that sense of wonder without irony.

being a weird old lady on purpose

Or maybe it’s the gift of being in my forties and knowing, finally, that this is a weird old lady habit and not caring at all. Knowing that I don’t need to justify it or make it productive or explain it away.

It’s been a gift sharing it online, receiving such warmth and enthusiasm in return, feeling supported instead of self-conscious.

a hobby that belongs only to me

Maybe it’s just having a hobby that exists purely for enjoyment. Something that belongs to me.

Something that doesn’t need to scale, optimize, or serve a purpose. Just making for the sake of making, and creating with a sense of joy.