Homebody & Heart

An Open House, a Handful of Signs, and a Mild Identity Crisis

There’s a very specific moment that happens when you’re putting out open house signs.

You’re usually alone. It’s quiet. You’re slightly early. And suddenly, you become painfully aware that you are a person standing on a street corner, holding an A-frame, trying to angle an arrow just right while cars drive by.

This is when the dissociation sets in.

I didn’t expect this part of real estate to feel so… existential. But here I am, adjusting a sign for the third time, wondering if it’s crooked or if I’m just overthinking it. (I’m overthinking it.)

No one really talks about this part. The in-between moments. The unglamorous ones. The ones where you’re not inside a beautiful home or having a meaningful conversation, but instead standing in the sun, mentally rehearsing what you’ll say if someone stops to ask a question.

Or worse — if someone you know drives by.

Being new shows up in funny ways. It’s not the big things I thought I’d feel unsure about. It’s the small, oddly public tasks that make you suddenly aware of yourself. Am I placing these correctly? Do people know I’m new? Do they care? Is this what confidence is supposed to look like?

At some point, you realize that no one is actually watching as closely as you think they are. Everyone is just living their own life, driving to their own destination, having their own internal monologue. You’re just a passing detail in their day.

And somehow, that’s comforting.

Putting out signs has become one of those quiet reminders that becoming something new isn’t always loud or impressive. Sometimes it looks like showing up early with a trunk full of supplies, doing the small things that no one will ever compliment you on, and learning as you go.

I’ve also learned that these moments go a lot better when I’m comfortable, prepared, and not digging through my car for my keys or lip balm while trying to look like I know what I’m doing. There are now a handful of things that permanently live in my car because they make these days feel easier and less chaotic. Not glamorous. Just practical. (Future me is very grateful.)

And maybe that’s the point.

This is what it looks like to build something slowly. To learn in public. To stand in your own awkwardness and keep going anyway. To take up space even when you don’t feel fully formed yet.

No one posts about the signs. But they’re part of the story too.

And honestly? I’m starting to appreciate them.

If you see me out there adjusting an arrow for the fourth time — or pretending to take a very important phone call while waiting at a red light at a busy intersection — no you didn’t.