I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how easy it is to get stuck. Not just in circumstances, but in perspective.

Sometimes the rut is not about what’s happening around us.

Sometimes it is about the story we have been telling ourselves about what is happening.

We all carry emotional muscle memory.

Past hurts, old disappointments, moments when we felt unseen or unsafe. They leave impressions.

And those impressions quietly shape how we interpret the present.

The problem is, our minds do not always update the script.

A look becomes a judgment.

A silence becomes rejection.

A question becomes a threat.

Not because those things are actually true, but because they once were somewhere in our story.

I am learning that growth sometimes looks like stepping back and asking a hard question:

“Is this really about now or is this about then?”

That’s not an easy thing to admit.

It means acknowledging that our reactions might not always be calibrated to the moment we are in.

It means realizing that people who care about us are not always the people our instincts think they are.

It means accepting that what feels like certainty might actually be old fear wearing a new coat.

And that is humbling.

But it is also freeing.

Because once you allow for the possibility that your interpretation might be off, something shifts.

You listen longer.

You assume less.

You soften a little.

Not because you are dismissing your feelings. But because you are giving them room to breathe before deciding what they mean.

In relationships, that recalibration matters even more.

It opens space for grace.

For better conversations.

For seeing each other as who we are now instead of who our past trained us to expect.

I do not think breaking out of a rut is dramatic.

It is quieter than that.

It is a willingness to pause.

To reconsider.

To admit we might not have had the full picture.

And maybe the real shift is not changing everything overnight.

Maybe it is just choosing, one moment at a time, to look again.

With clearer eyes. Steadier ground. 

And a little more trust than we had before.

This weekend feels special.

For nearly a decade, I’ve carried a quiet dream. One that traces all the way back to 2016. And this weekend, I finally get to live it.

For a few days, I will be “living” at Crosstown.

If you know me, you know my affection for Crosstown Concourse runs deep. But the story doesn’t begin with the beautifully restored landmark we know today. It begins when it was still known as Sears Crosstown.

That’s where my story begins, too.

My parents met on an elevator inside that building when they both worked there. There is still a photograph of my mom hanging in the hallway that separates the two atriums. A quiet reminder that this place holds more than commerce and creativity. It holds family history. My family history.

As a child, I would visit my dad there at work. Our family banked at the credit union inside the building. We shopped in the store. Those walls were part of my early world.

When Crosstown Concourse reopened in its reimagined form, it felt like falling in love all over again. The building’s rebirth mirrored something personal. A blending of past and present. Every time I walk through those doors, it feels like coming home.

Being there brings me close to my parents, both of whom passed away far too early in my adult life. It also awakens something in me. The creative energy of the space, the sense of possibility, the hum of innovation and art and life.

A few years ago, we even considered moving into the apartments. In the end, we chose to remain in the home where we raised our boys. It was the right decision. But the dream of living at Crosstown never really left.

Recently, I discovered that some of the apartments are available for short-term stays. That was all the invitation I needed. I booked a weekend and circled the date on my calendar.

When I unlock that door and step inside, I know there will be a wave of emotion. Gratitude. Memory. Joy. A quiet sense of fulfillment.

It may only be for a weekend, but it represents something much bigger. Honoring where I come from, celebrating what still inspires me and finally stepping into a dream I’ve carried for nearly ten years.

Sometimes, “home” is not just where you live.

Sometimes, it’s where your story began.