Finding Myself In The Kitchen
- TheFlunkyChicken
- Apr 13
- 6 min read
A story about how remodeling my kitchen taught me to trust myself, find belonging, and build a new story from scratch.
For most of my life, I didn’t think of myself as a kitchen person.
I could cook. I wasn’t helpless. I could follow a recipe. I could get dinner on the table. I knew how to feed people well enough.
But the kitchen never felt like home to me.
Not in the way I had seen it be for other people.
I grew up watching women who were wildly capable in the kitchen — my mom, who could make something out of nothing without breaking a sweat. Later, my mother-in-law and my sisters-in-law, who moved around a kitchen like it was an extension of their own bodies. They had the kind of ease that comes from long practice, yes — but also from belonging.
That was the part I didn’t have.
The kitchen, for me, was mostly a place of watching. Observing. Staying out of the way. Picking things up by proximity, but never really being invited in.
There wasn’t space for messes. There wasn’t room for experimenting. There wasn’t much patience for the learning curve that often comes when skills are passed down hand-to-hand, generation-to-generation.
So while I learned plenty, I learned it quietly. On the edges.
And that shaped me.
It shaped how I approached cooking — as something to figure out rather than feel. As something to get right rather than enjoy.
The kitchen, for me, was a place of task. Of precision. Of survival.
Cooking was an intellectual exercise — a puzzle to solve, a need to meet. It was rarely — if ever — a place of connection or creativity.
There was no cozy family rhythm to step into. No chorus of laughter while chopping vegetables. No communal dance of many hands working together.
More often than not, it was just me. Alone. Feeding whoever needed feeding. Getting the job done.
I had skills, sure. But I didn’t have ease.
I had knowledge. But I didn’t have warmth.
I could cook. But I didn’t know how to belong in the kitchen.
That’s a different skill entirely.
And for a long time, I thought that was just how it was going to be.
Doing The Work (Literally)
The very first time Edwin and I toured our current house back in September of 2017, we knew — knew — we were going to have to renovate the kitchen.
We loved the bones of the house, but the kitchen? Painful. Dark. Cramped. A total afterthought.
As I imagined what I wanted to do to reinvent the space, I realized that I didn’t just want to build cabinets.
I wanted to build a new story. Not just for the space — but for me.
"Sometimes belonging isn’t something you inherit — sometimes it’s something you build."
We lived with it for two whole years before tearing out the first set of cabinets. Two years of patience and self-control neither of us knew we possessed.
Please clap.
And then — in what can only be described as a completely predictable move for anyone who knows me — I decided I was going to do the whole kitchen myself.
“Wait, what? You’re doing it yourself?”
Yes, friends. Yes, I was.
Important Historical Context: I Am My Father’s Daughter.
I grew up watching my dad — a man with more grit and ingenuity than anyone I’ve ever met — tear apart and rebuild the kitchen in our 1920’s era foursquare home.
And when I say “rebuild the kitchen,” I don’t mean slap some paint on the cabinets. I mean: remove a screened-in porch, add an exterior wall, move the electrical panel, design and build every cabinet, craft a giant island, add a wall of pantries — the whole thing.
Alone. Nights. Weekends. Between full-time jobs.
It took him over twenty years.
Please clap more.
(Those of you who’ve seen my house or my workshop are having some real lightbulb moments right about now.)
So yes. I had lived through a kitchen renovation.
And yes. Even after watching my dad chip away at his for two decades, I still thought to myself: I could probably do that.
Because I am my father’s daughter.
“What, Like It’s Hard?”
Cue Elle Woods from Legally Blonde right about here:
(I mean, I’ve played Tetris. How hard could a bunch of boxes really be?)
Spoiler: It was hard.
Not just the building part — although that learning curve was basically a vertical line — but the being part. The soul part. The unexpected identity part.
See, I didn’t choose to remodel the kitchen because I thought it would be easy. I wasn’t naive enough to believe it would save me money or time.
I chose it because something about the process was calling me.
Something deeper than cabinets.
Finding Myself (Covered In Sawdust)
At the time, I didn’t have the language for what was happening.
I only knew this: I had spent years walking away from the roles, relationships, and belief systems that told me who I had to be.
But after walking away from all of that…I didn’t know who I was.
I knew who I wasn’t. That part was clear.
But who was I without the labels? Without the expectations? Without the constant background noise of who everyone else needed me to be?
I didn’t know what I liked. Or what I didn’t like. I didn’t trust my own voice. I didn’t trust my own judgment.
My hobbies — if you could call them that — included reading endless articles about trauma recovery, narcissistic abuse, and high-control systems. Not exactly light reading.
If someone asked about my hobbies, I’d rattle off what sounded socially acceptable:
"Rebecca loves reading, gardening, baking, and long walks in the woods."
(It me. I was a liar.)
Turns Out, Kitchens Are Just Boxes…Sort Of.
Remodeling a kitchen might seem like an extreme route to finding yourself. But if you’ve ever spent any time on YouTube or Pinterest or HGTV, you know I’m not alone.
And here’s what I learned standing there in the middle of my gutted kitchen, surrounded by sawdust and self-doubt:
Some things that look big are really just a lot of small things stacked together.
Cabinets really are just boxes.
But first, you have to take a 4x8 sheet of plywood and cut it into strips. Then cut those strips into smaller strips. Drill holes. Clamp it all together. Screw the pieces in place. Sand. Finish. Repeat. Twenty times.
It’s simple. But it’s not easy.
And that’s true in life, too.
Most big things are really just a lot of small things stacked together. But enough small things — especially when they’re wearing a trench coat — can feel overwhelming.
Some small things matter way more than you think.
Like fractions.
What’s 1/8 of an inch between friends?
Turns out…a lot.
Ignore enough 1/16ths and 1/8ths and before you know it, you’ve got a 1/2 inch gap staring back at you — in your cabinet or in your life.
Little things matter. Even when you wish they didn’t.
"You can’t think your way into healing. You have to do your way there."
I had already spent years remodeling me. Reading. Processing. Therapy-ing.
But at some point, I didn’t need more thinking.
I needed action.
I needed to pick up tools.
To learn new skills.
To fail. To adjust. To build.
I needed to meet myself again — not as a problem to solve, but as a person to discover.
What I Found
I found parts of myself I had forgotten.
I met parts of myself I didn’t know existed.
I got reacquainted with old familiar parts — like my inner critics (plural), whom I (mostly) lovingly nicknamed The Cabal. I learned who they were. Where they came from. And, shockingly, how to work alongside them instead of against them.
And maybe most importantly: I learned I could trust myself again.
Not because I got everything perfect.
But because I showed up anyway.
Because I learned as I went.
Because I built a whole kitchen from a pile of plywood and stubbornness and YouTube tutorials.
And Here’s The Thing…
I could sell this house tomorrow.
Walk away from every cabinet, every pantry, every island I built.
And I’d still be okay.
Because the real work wasn’t the kitchen.
It was me.
(Bonus round: While I don't have a video for the inside of my "Me Renovation" — that's actually what this blog is about — I do have a short YouTube video showing the kitchen renovation, from the before pictures to the current progress. Enjoy!)
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