There’s a moment I think about often.
We had just finished the last coat of paint in the guest bedroom: our first house, finally done. I remember walking through each room in the quiet, seeing the sun hit the fresh white trim, smelling the sawdust that still lingered in the air. My dad and I had spent late nights working on that house, installing trim, fixing drywall, building storage, and tackling whatever needed doing. We laid every plank of that floor ourselves. Friends came by on weekends with pizza and tools, just to pitch in.
One of my favorite projects from that house was a bench we built with my grandparents. Papa and I cut and assembled the frame while Nana and Amelia helped with sanding and finishing. It was one of those simple, sturdy pieces that seemed to carry the spirit of the time we spent together. When we moved, that bench came with us. Today, it sits proudly on our front porch, a daily reminder that some things you build are more than just furniture. They're family.
That move marked a turning point for me. I didn’t realize how attached I’d become until it was time to say goodbye.
And then we sold the house.
Letting go of that house hurt in a way I didn't expect. We had poured ourselves into it: blood, sweat, tears, splinters, arguments, jokes, breakthroughs. It wasn't just drywall and siding. It was time. It was effort. It was love.
But when I really sat with that grief, I realized something important.
It Was Never Just About the House
I wasn't mourning the loss of a building. I was mourning the experience of building it with the people I care about most. Of solving problems side by side. Of calling my dad for the fifth time that day to ask how to reroute a drain line. Of watching Amelia figure out how to run a nail gun like a pro. Of learning something new every step of the way.
The house was the container for those moments, but it wasn’t the point.
What mattered was the journey.
The Joy Is in the Doing
I still chase that feeling. It's why I'm building Dib the way I am, not just as a product, but as a deeply personal project that reflects the kind of care and curiosity that filled those early renovation days.
There's something incredibly grounding about working with your hands. About building with people instead of just for them. It's messy and hard and humbling, and beautiful.
These days, I’m just as happy framing a wall with my dad as I am writing code. I get the same satisfaction from seeing a dusty corner come to life as I do from helping someone make sense of their home with Dib. In both cases, the joy comes from the doing. The being there. The sharing of effort.
Memories Are the Real Foundation
That first house may be gone, but the moments we shared inside it are etched into my memory. Six weeks of my dad showing up day after day to help. Friends laughing as we crawled around the crawlspace with headlamps, solving problems one flashlight beam at a time. That house became something special because of the people who poured themselves into it, not just with tools, but with heart.
I've come to see that what we were really building wasn't a house; it was a chapter in our lives.
And that mindset has stayed with me through every home, every line of code, every new feature in Dib. The value isn’t just in what we finish. It’s in what we experience while building it.
A Note to the Builders
If you've ever stood back at the end of a long weekend project, hands blistered, heart full, then you know what I'm talking about.
Keep building.
Keep learning.
Keep enjoying the process, not just the product.
Whether it's a wall, a piece of software, or a life you're designing, remember: the real magic is in the journey.
The house was never the goal. The time we spent building it together? That’s what made it home.
