I didn’t realise how much a place can hold you… until it changes.

Every holiday. Almost every long weekend. Every Christmas and Easter.

We went to Hentiesbay (small coastal town in Namibia, Africa).

Not the Hentiesbay you see now with its “two traffic lights” and December chaos and number plates from everywhere.

The Hentiesbay I grew up with was small. Slow. 

Bread came once a week.

We could see the sea from our house.

The dunes weren’t just dunes — they were mountains to a child. Big sand giants that met the ocean like the whole world was built for barefoot running and shouting your cousins’ names into the wind.

And our family was always there.

My dad’s friends too — the kind of friends who become extra uncles without anyone ever making it official.

If I’m honest… we didn’t just visit Henties. We grew up there.

My dad built our home in 1986.

And then, as we got bigger — as we got louder and messier and more “kids” — he bought the erf next door.

That erf became an extension of our lives.

New Year’s Eve parties.

Volleyball games that got way too competitive.

Bonfires.

That one cousin who always “accidentally” knocked the ball over the wall.

Running between houses like the whole neighbourhood belonged to us (because in our minds… it did).

That piece of sand wasn’t land.

It was memory.

So when I left to study in 2001… my dad sold it.

Without telling us.

And I was devastated. Proper heartbroken.

Not because I didn’t understand sacrifice — I did.

But because I didn’t understand why he didn’t tell us.

Later, as the adult version of me kicked in (slowly, like dial-up internet), I realised something:

My dad hated debt.

And those studies in Cape Town weren’t cheap.

Around R250,000 for three years — and that’s not even counting the computer, hostel, travel, life.

So he sold the erf to pay for it.

And suddenly, my heartbreak had a shadow of gratitude underneath it.

The kind you only feel once you realise what it costs to raise a child into a future.

Still… I missed it.

That erf felt like a family member that got moved away without a goodbye.

So when I started my design studio in 2010, I had this quiet promise inside me:

One day, I’m going to buy it back.

By some miracle — the owner never built on it.

It took my husband and me about four years of negotiating.

Four years of back and forth, patience, stubborn hope, and probably a few dramatic moments where I said, “Okay, fine, then keep it,” while clearly not meaning it.

In 2014, we finally got it back.

And it felt like that family member had come home again.

I wanted to build a second Henties home on that erf.

A place where the next generation — our growing family with kids and animals and all our noise — could also have holidays and memories like we did.

And if I’m honest… it was also my way of saying thank you.

Thank you for my studies.

Thank you for the sacrifice.

Thank you for being the kind of father who didn’t want his children to carry the weight of his decisions — even if it meant carrying it alone.

We planned to build in 2020.

But in 2020, my dad passed away.

And then the world did that thing…

That thing we all lived through and don’t always want to name because even the words feel heavy.

The years after that were… a blur.

Grief. Life. Work. Adjusting. Surviving.

Trying to be normal while your heart is doing renovations in the background.

Then in 2024, something unexpected happened.

My husband bought his brother’s company — and one arm of the business builds homes using precast.

Half the price.

Half the time.

And when the finishing is done… you honestly wouldn’t know it’s precast. It can look elegant. Grand. Proper grown-up.

So we decided:

Let’s build a showhome on the erf.

The long-awaited holiday home by the sea…but also a real-life example of what this building method can look like when it’s done beautifully.

And that’s what we did.

I’m proud.

Proud of my husband.

Proud of my brother who works with him.

Proud of what it took to get that house up — not just the building part, but the emotional part too.

We didn’t glide into this Christmas like a Pinterest family in matching linen.

We worked.

We worked for about two weeks to get it liveable.

And then we had about a week of actually enjoying it.

So no… it didn’t feel like a soft holiday. It felt like sweat and unpacking.

But now… it’s ready.

And I’m ready.

Ready to make new memories.

Ready for new traditions.

Ready to let it become ours.

My mom is still next door.

My brother and his family too.

And now we can all grow into a new rhythm of being together again.

Henties isn’t the same, though.

It’s bigger. More people. Busy.

Over Christmas it’s packed with South Africans, tourists, everyone — it feels like the whole world remembered our little coastal town.

And yet…

You still walk barefoot into the shops.

The roads are still salty or gravel.

Sand is still in everything — your car, your bags, your hair, your soul.

And the sea is still the sea.

But I learnt something this holiday that caught me off guard:

A part of me expected it to feel like my dad was still alive.

Like if I just stood on the erf long enough, the past would walk back in.

But nothing is the same anymore.

Not the town.

Not the space.

Not me.

And that’s where the real lesson lives.

Because I keep saying “Design your life” like it’s a cute motto…

but it’s not cute when life changes without asking your permission.

It’s not cute when grief shifts the furniture in your heart.

Designing your life is… standing in the middle of the pieces you have now,

and saying, “Okay. This is the season. Let’s build with this.”

This new home has touches of my dad in it.

Things he made.

And outside… we planted vetplante from his funeral bouquet.

That’s a sentence I never thought I’d write, but it’s true.

So yes, the house is new.

But it’s still rooted in him.

And now it has empty spaces.

Not empty in a sad way — empty in a hopeful way.

Space for dinners.

For grandkids running between houses.

For laughter and fights and “Who took my charger?”

For bonfires again.

Space for life.

Here’s to designing this next part of our lives…

on an erf full of old memories,

with a new home, and room for new ones to come.

Thanks for being here.

And if your life is shifting too — if you’re standing in a season where nothing feels the same — you’re not behind.

You’re just redesigning.

And that counts.