Write about your dream home.

A few years ago, we moved from Scarborough to Waterloo. Like most people, we imagined finding the perfect home—the kind where you step inside and immediately hear a choir of angels singing.

That didn’t happen.

Instead, we spent weeks wandering through houses that tested our patience and our ability to fake enthusiasm. Some were too small, some felt like they were stuck in the 1970s, and some had that special mystery smell that made us leave faster than we entered.

After a month, exhaustion kicked in. We stopped looking for a dream home and started looking for a house that simply had walls and a roof and didn’t make us question our life choices. Eventually, we settled on one—not because it was The One, but because at that point, it was A One, and that was enough.

At first, it was just a house. The kitchen felt too cramped, the backyard had an old wooden dock that looked like it was one strong wind away from collapsing, and the floors had seen more history than a museum. The lighting was so dim, we weren’t sure if the previous owners were running a home or a secret detective agency.

So, we did what all homeowners eventually do: we tore things apart.

We redesigned the kitchen, so it actually made sense.
We added more washrooms because waiting in line in your own house is a special kind of suffering.
We ripped out the backyard’s wooden dock before nature did it for us and poured concrete—because solid ground is underrated.
We replaced the floors, painted the walls, and switched to LEDs, because why live in a house when you can live in an energy-efficient, well-lit masterpiece?

And somewhere in all that destruction and rebuilding, this house became our dream home.

Not because it started that way. Not because it was perfect when we bought it. But because we made it ours.

Life rarely hands you things in their final, beautiful form. The job, the relationships, the plans—everything starts as something and turns into something else. And if you stick around long enough, if you put in the work, if you throw in a few good laughs along the way, what once felt like just a house becomes the place where your life happens.

Because dreams aren’t always found. Sometimes, they are built.


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Kalyanasundaram Kalimuthu

This blog is where I dump my brain. Like a suitcase that’s been zipped too long—thoughts spill out, wrinkled, awkward, and not always useful. No tips. No advice. No “live better” tricks. Just messy, raw thoughts—sometimes funny, sometimes not. Sometimes I don’t even get it. I don’t even want to call this writing. Real writers might take me to court. What I do is more like emotional spitting, random keyboard smashing, and letting my thoughts run wild like unsupervised toddlers in a grocery store—touching everything, breaking nothing important, but still making everyone uncomfortable. I do this because it helps me breathe. It’s like taking the trash out of my brain before the smell becomes permanent. It helps me talk to people without tripping over my own words. Writing clears the traffic jam in my head—horns, chaos, bad directions, all gone for a while. If you’re looking for deep lessons or motivation, you’re in the wrong place. I’m not your guide. I’m just a guy talking to himself in public and hoping someone finds it mildly interesting. This is the mess I call writing. Or not-writing. Whatever. Like a broken vending machine—it may not deliver what you asked for, but sometimes it still drops something weird and oddly perfect.

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