It’s been a big season of change.

The kind that cracks everything open and leaves you standing in a new landscape, unsure but somehow more alive.

For those who don’t know, this past year we lost what we called home.

I moved into our last house with so much hope — dreaming it would finally be the place where my kids and I could ground, settle, create.

A space where the studio could grow, where laughter would fill the rooms, where life could feel stable again after so much upheaval.

But almost from the first week, things felt wrong.

The roof leaked, the walls sweated, the air grew heavy.

I kept raising concerns, but for months, nothing was done.

It wasn’t until later — after countless headaches, countless days feeling sick — that we learned the truth:

The house was riddled with hidden mold and structural damage.

What was meant to be our sanctuary was making us unwell.

When they finally acknowledged the problem, it came with an immediate eviction notice —

a deadline, a list of removalists, and the reality that almost everything we owned had to be thrown away.

Two truckloads of our belongings — beds, books, artworks, memories — all lost.

And the ones we could save had to be packed up in a flurry, with nowhere stable to go.

It’s been months now of couch-surfing, living half-in, half-out of boxes, trying to find a way forward.

But somewhere inside the wreckage, a new vision began to grow.

Something wild and free, something we had never dared before:

A traveling art bus —

a home on wheels, a moving studio, a way to turn the chaos into an adventure, into creation.