When people talk about the smells of their childhood, they might mention the earthy scent of fresh-cut grass, the salty odor of play-dough, and the coconut aroma of sun block. But for me it’s the dusty clay scent of plaster, the harsh stench of paint, and musky air that has been trapped in a wall for a century.

Our house has been continuously under renovation for my entire life. My family and I have done just about everything you could do to a house. We have lifted it thirteen feet off the ground in order to replace the foundation and dig out a new basement. We have given it new flooring, new bathrooms, a new kitchen. My dad is the architect, contractor and carpenter of the project, and my mom is somewhere between the world’s worst client and most patient wife.

My family has become renowned within our circle of friends for having the house that is a “work in progress.” Most of our friends are passively confused by its state of incompleteness. But for some, the situation is just too bizarre. One neighbor cannot let a week pass without asking, “When will your house be done?” Rather than being bothered or becoming self-conscious, I have come to see his persistence as a graciousness. He is merely trying to remind us that it is not yet complete.

One day our neighbor Andy received a call from his friend John, who hosts a national radio show called Weekend America. John was planning a show on the topic of “The Obsessive Remodeler” and he was wondering whether Andy knew of anyone so obsessed. It wasn’t hard for Andy to make a recommendation as he heard the piercing siren of a tile saw grinding away in our front yard.

Unlike neighbors and friends sympathetic to our mission, John was a reporter looking for a story. As we sat around our living room, I watched John’s eyes scan the mosaic of green and blue paint “brush-outs” on the walls, down to the outlets with sprouting dead wires, and down lower to the baseboard that wasn’t there. I could feel him judging my mom and dad.

As I listened to my dad talking to John, I heard him confess, "Actually the one thing that gives me the greatest anxiety about the state of our house is the fact that Louisa is now 17 and she's never lived here when it wasn't a project. I would just like to have it done for her." Nervously, I wrung my hands as I sensed that I needed to defend my house and a big part of my life. I struggled fruitlessly to find the words to explain that although it has been under construction for as long as I can remember, I am deeply comforted by the way it is.

I grew more and more uncomfortable throughout the interview as I began to realize that my well-being had become the angle John was working to expose. The interview marked the first time I felt defensive and self-conscious about where I live and I didn’t like it. In retrospect, I never was able to articulate for John the significance of my relationship with my house while under the pressure of his rolling tape recorder and his impersonal and judgmental scrutiny.

Since the interview, I have come to a clearer understanding about my house. Evidently, it took being in that vulnerable position for me to see what is valuable about how I feel. Yes, our house is ”a work in progress,” but our constant work fills me with a rare passion for the place in which I live. What if instead I had been raised in a “perfect” home, one that was “done”? I would never have to navigate through extension cords and power tools or be startled awake by the roar of an air-compressor. But I also wouldn’t have that special connection to my house, that feeling of accomplishment every time I walk through the door, knowing I installed the handle.

As I look into the family room, I see the bookshelves my dad made; walking down the hall I see the delicate Victorian wallpaper my mom and I hung; on the bathroom floor I see the black and white tiles we painstakingly laid. And as I step into my bedroom, the yellow paint on the walls matches the freckles on my Chuck Taylors. This appreciation for the work we accomplished pushes out any momentary feelings of regret or self-consciousness.

I feel I have earned the right to live in my house. And I have come to understand life in the same way. It requires investment for which the reward is greater than the sum of the parts. I have learned you cannot simply step into that kind of richness. The value one experiences in life comes not from being but from becoming. So, when will it be done? It will never be done.

This essay was written by Louisa Jelaco, Garfield Class of 2009, Colgate University Class of 2013.