From Renovation to Real Life: The Journey Continues
You know a house is done when you stop stepping over sawdust and start stepping into quiet.
Teche didn’t get finished on a schedule — she got finished on a feeling. There were 31‑hour runs (yes, literally) where I barely slept, a Sunday with Patrick and Evie where the air smelled like paint and ambition, and a moment that suddenly made all the chaos worth it: when Evie, mid‑sprint across what had finally become a clean floor, skidded to a stop and turned to me, wide-eyed: “Mommy? I fink dis house is almost done.”
In that second, the walls stopped being walls. The rooms stopped being rooms.
That was it. The shift.
Suddenly, this wasn’t a flip full of deadlines and dust. It was a house with lungs.
The second the house became present. Intentional. Ready to be lived in.
From Chaos to Calm Underfoot
I’ve walked through enough flips to know what “listing‑day ready” often ends up meaning: floors still suffused with drywall dust, painter’s tape dangling from casings, baseboards coated in debris, hardware that doesn’t match. That’s never been my standard — and Teche made sure of it. By the time the final photoshoot rolled around, I had crawled on my hands and knees through eight hours of vacuuming, mopping, and hand‑polishing the original cypress tongue‑and‑groove walls and ceilings in the dining room.
Each pass wasn’t just about cleanliness — it was about respect. Respect for wood that had weathered decades, respect for a home that will carry decades more, and respect for whoever walks in next. This wood deserved reverence. It wasn’t just clean. It was cared for. Sure, I’m certain there is a paint touch up or 2, maybe a light fixture that needs adjusting, but nothing about this finished project feels rushed or careless.
This wasn’t fluff or finishing touches. The house didn’t just get wiped clean — it got given a second breath. Because if you’re going to ask someone to call a place home, the least you can do is make it feel sacred.
The Last-Minute Details That Made the Difference
Spare No Detail — Especially the Late‑Night Ones
Finishing a home isn’t glamorous. It’s in the tiny decisions that add up, the ones nobody notices, but can feel it when they’re missing.
The truth about finishing a home is that the smallest decisions take the longest.
The right hardware.
The correct temperature bulbs (because lighting matters).
Brass that actually patinas.
Paint touch-ups performed at hours when normal people sleep.
We swapped out every piece of tired, half-painted hardware. We aligned switch plates, patched corner joints, adjusted trim, polished surfaces until even the reflection felt deliberate. No band‑aids. No “good enough.” Not one corner was overlooked. It wasn’t about checking boxes — it was about asking the space to be ready, really ready.
And then came the staging — which was, admittedly, too fun for my own good. I styled until the rooms felt lived-in, not decorated; until every seat looked like someone had just stood up; until leaving the house felt genuinely difficult. Every surface looked like it had just been touched.
When you care — really care — you feel it. In the bones of the walls. In the grain of the wood. In the quiet hum of a space that finally, finally works.
Because Charm Shouldn’t Be a Victim of Renovation
Out front, I planted the cottagecore wildflower-inspired garden I’d dreamt up while drawing floor plans at midnight. Snapdragons. Jasmin. Creeping fig vine. Swaths of soft green stems and bursts of Red, yellow, and purple dancing in the Louisiana wind. It’s not for the MLS — and that’s fine. It’s for Sunday mornings, bare feet, and half‑drunk mugs of coffee in the quiet peeks of sunrise before the world stirs.
No spreadsheet calculates charm like that.
Because charm doesn’t just show up on paper — it settles in the bones of a place. And those are the details that stick with people, even when the finishes fade. But buyers feel it.
They always do.
This Isn’t a Flip. It’s a Rebirth
Call it heresy, but I almost hate the word flip for this project. The word feels too quick. Too transactional. Too empty. Flips are often all sheen and no substance — designed to photograph well and age poorly, to impress from the curb and disappoint once you open the cabinet doors.
Teche isn’t that. Not even close.
Let’s be clear: Teche wasn’t gutted and replaced. She was restored.
Where lesser flips rip out history and paste from Pinterest, this house got listened to. Her quirks were studied, not stripped. Her bones—solid cypress, aged brick, solid wood cabinetry—were never the problem. They were the blueprint.
Every change was a conversation between what she was and what she could be. Where to add softness. Where to hold the line. What to uncover, what to edit, and what deserved to stay exactly as it was.
Restoration is slower. It asks more of you. It doesn’t give you straight lines or clean answers. But it gives you soul. And that’s what Teche has now, tucked into every threshold and behind every re-hung door: a sense of self.
This wasn’t a flip.
It was a reclamation.
Of beauty. Of time. Of something worth keeping.
The Heart Behind the Work
This house may have been my vision, but it never would’ve come together without the people who showed up when it counted.
Blaise—my PIC and voice of reason— never faltered when the foundation needed to be rebuilt, the gas company gave us a 5 week delay, or tile needed to be re grouted (ok maybe that last one wouldv’e gotten to him had it not been for me taking matters into my own hands with a trip to Floor & Decor and a grout float).
Ian quite literally saved our A-words when he stepped up and took the entire project into his own hands after our first project manager couldn’t hack it. He spent early mornings, late nights, and every moment in between rewiring for my (many) light fixtures, plumbed everything just right, and somehow made Teche a well-oiled restoration machine after walking into sheer and utter chaos. In all these weeks, I’ve never once seen the guy without a tool in hand, rolling up his sleeves, ready to do what needs to be done and do it right. I fear he’s stuck with me now, because I’ve never met another contractor who quite lives up to his standard.
Then there are the ones who put the work in for no reason other than a love for our crazy crew.
Patrick ran point on furniture hauls, dumpster runs, and more cleaning and landscaping than anyone should have to do after a full work week. Teagan rolled up her sleeves and helped me scrub, stage, and get Teche market-ready like it was her own.
And then there’s Wrigley—who somehow made space where there wasn’t any. She captured the soul of this place through her lens, pitched in for late-night cleanup parties, and kept Evie so entertained that she never even noticed how much time Mama was pouring into finishing touches.
Because of them, Teche didn’t just get finished. She got loved. And you can feel it in every photo, every corner, every little detail.
The Last Word
Teche isn’t perfect. She was never meant to be.
Perfection ages poorly anyway. What she is—what we built her to be—is ready. Ready for the things that actually make a house matter. The messy kitchens and undone laundry. The late dinners that stretch into second bottles and unplanned dancing. The tiny feet, the laughter in the hallway, the messes that mean something.
She can hold all of it.
She started as a flip—sure. But along the way, she asked for more. More care. More patience. More of us. And we gave it, piece by piece, in paint touch-ups at midnight and hands-and-knees floor polishing, in choosing the right lightbulb, not just a lightbulb.
By the end, this wasn’t a renovation. It was a restoration. A making-right. A letting-be.
Teche didn’t just get finished. She grew into herself.
And if we did our jobs right, she’s ready to grow with someone else now.
Ready to Meet Her for Yourself?
If you’ve made it this far, you already know—Teche isn’t just another house on the market. She’s layered, thoughtful, and quietly alive in a way that only happens when a home is given time, intention, and love.
She’s ready for real life now.
Maybe yours.
