Rain on the Tin Roof:

Recalibrating at the Retreat at Firefly Farm

Last week, was a whirlwind.

I started the week teaching; because that’s what I do and by Wednesday I was up at the ass crack of dawn, quite literally 3 a.m., dragging myself (thanks to my dutiful husband) to Logan Airport in Boston by 4 (YES AM). Running on coffee, adrenaline, and that familiar cocktail of nerves and excitement that travel always stirs up in my body. I was heading to Mouth of Wilson, Virginia, and the Retreat at Firefly Farm.

The Retreat at Firefly Farm - Mouth of Wilson, Virginia

This wasn’t a getaway. It was a convening of the Pathways Community Board of Trustees. We’ve been working on something big: Attainable Sustainable Housing.

If you’ve tried to buy a home lately, you know the truth, housing isn’t designed for human beings. Not financially. Not physically. Not from the perspective of brain and body health. We slap together shoddy materials, we maximize developer profits, and we leave people; teachers, first responders, nurses, the backbone of a community, priced out and exhausted.

Pathways is trying something different. The model we’re working on doesn’t just plop houses on land and call it a day. It’s about ownership and equity; building communities with gardens, shared spaces, and structures designed to sustain both body and mind. It’s about creating housing where people can actually put down roots, breathe, and build a future. And that, my friends, is no small feat.

Chris Moeller and the leadership team have already pulled off what most would have thought impossible: securing land, permits, and early funding. We were gathering on the one-year anniversary of Helene, not just to mark the progress, but to welcome the very community we aim to serve, alongside potential partners who might help carry this vision into the next phase.

So there I was - bleary-eyed from two flights (Boston to Baltimore, Baltimore to Charlotte) and a two-and-a-half-hour road trip with my friend and colleague Carrie Rainier. By the time we reached the farm, my nervous system was shot. Travel does that to me. It’s like my body holds a grudge against disruption. The anxiety simmers, the sensory overload spikes, and I can feel every muscle holding on for dear life.

And then…..I walked into the farmhouse.

The smells hit me first. Centuries-old wood, a faint echo of meals past, the earthy calm of a space that’s held history longer than I’ve been alive. Then my eyes landed on it: my leather chair. The one I claimed last year. Waiting for me like an old friend. I collapsed into it with an audible sigh, which made Chris chuckle. He knew exactly what that moment meant: recalibration.

Because here’s the truth - neurodivergent nervous systems need recalibration.

We live in a world that is constant noise, flashing lights, deadlines, and disconnection. Airplanes, highways, hotels; all of it frays the edges of my wiring. And then I arrive somewhere like the Retreat at Firefly Farm, where Wi-Fi is spotty at best, where nature insists on being louder than your notifications, and my whole body finally exhales. That’s not just “nice.” It’s survival.

That first night, a handful of us gathered with charcuterie, wine, and music under the granary roof. A soft drip, drip, drip turned into a downpour. Warm rain against a tin roof is one of life’s greatest soundtracks. I kicked off my shoes, stepped into the wet grass, and let the rain run down my face. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I wasn’t managing. I was just being.

The days that followed were a mix of business and bonding. We presented materials and updates to partners and organizations working on economic development and workforce housing. We explained the model. We answered questions. We asked for support. But outside of those conversations, we did the work that makes this work possible: we built trust.

Pathway's Board of Trustees

We cooked meals together, side by side in the farmhouse kitchen. We rode four-wheelers across 150 acres of rolling land. We got stuck on a bridge and had to trek back in pitch darkness, guided only by the shimmer of fireflies dancing across the field. There was music; vinyl, of course, spun by John Ramser, while the rest of us laughed, shot pool, and sank into the kind of camaraderie that doesn’t come from PowerPoints or board reports.

Because the road ahead is long. Housing at this scale, in this way, is slow, uncertain, and messy. It will require endurance. And endurance is fueled by community - by people willing to stand shoulder-to-shoulder when the path is unclear.

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I had no idea just how much I needed this trip. Ive been running on all cylinders, and not exactly taking care of my own needs in the process. When you live like that, you don’t always notice what you’re loosing until you stop.

Those who know me - saw it (usually do before me actually…) and kept asking. “Is everything ok?” or “I have not see you writing much lately” etc…They know. When that stops - it’s the silent alarm, the red flag that says….”HELP”

Writing has always been my emotional support dog. When I stop writing - whether in journals, Substack, or even quick posts - it usually means I’ve gone into a period of constriction. Reflection. Inner work. Lately I’ve teaching, coaching, mentoring, breathing, meditating. Cocooning. Not gone, just quiet. (and also not writing…)

But last week cracked me open again.

Because when you’re barefoot in wet grass, when you’re watching the last sparks of summer fireflies fade into the night, when you’re wrapped in the sounds of rain on a tin roof, you remember: this is what it means to be human. Not racing. Not grinding. Not constantly scrolling. But being present in a body, in a place, with other people.

And that’s what we’re fighting for with Pathways. Not just housing. Belonging. Communities where nervous systems aren’t constantly on edge, where there’s space to breathe, where equity and ownership are built in from the ground up.

This trip was short - just Wednesday through Friday - but it was enough. Enough to recalibrate. Enough to remind me that resilience isn’t an individual project. It’s collective. It’s built over meals, in rainstorms, around record players, across 200-year-old farmhouses that remind you what endurance really looks like.

What I carried home with me is this: resilience isn’t a storm to outlast, it’s a community to return to.

It’s found in leather chairs and tin roofs, in gardens and shared meals, in designing housing that honors both body and brain. Pathways is about creating those places; where equity, ownership, and belonging aren’t just ideals, they’re daily realities. And that, to me, THAT is what it’s all about.

Me… with my favorite things… graphic tee, black coffee and the BEST leather chair around….

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