One Year On | The Rebuild That Changed Everything

It’s been a year.

One year since the fire that took the place that cradled our family’s story—our family bach. A home woven with salt air, sunscreen, belly laughs, board games, and the hush of waves through open windows.

In the weeks that followed, we sifted through ash and utter disbelief. Not just of what we’d lost, but of what remained—grief, yes. But also, a strange sense of clarity.

Because when something so central to your family's rhythm vanishes in an instant, it doesn’t just leave a gap. It fundamentally changes you.

Writing Through the Wreckage

Somewhere in the blur between meetings with building companies and emotional exhaustion, I began to write. First in fragments—thoughts I couldn’t (and wouldn’t) speak aloud. But slowly, I noticed the words began to form something deeper. A need to make meaning.

It wasn’t planned. It came from sitting in the middle of an empty piece of land and asking: What makes a home feel like safety again? How do we rebuild, not just structures, but lives?

At first, it was private—scribbled thoughts, quiet grief, glimpses of hope. And then slowly, they evolved into something else. Something that wanted to live outside the walls of our experience and maybe—hopefully—touch someone else’s too.

The Locus of Control

Somewhere in the blur of weeks after the fire, I sought support—not just for myself, but for my family. I visited a therapist to better understand how to navigate the anxiety that followed.

I don't remember much of our conversation, but something she said has stayed with me:

“Focus on your locus of control. Let go of what you can’t change, and put your energy into what you can.”

This single phrase has become an anchor for me this past year—reminding me that even in the face of loss, we still get to choose how we respond. Where we place our energy. What we build next.

Reimagining the Rebuild

Planning the new bach is taking longer than any of us had anticipated—not just because of insurance or because of all the red tape we've had to wade through, but because it hasn’t simply been been about replicating what was. It’s been about attempting to answer the questions the fire left behind:

What matters now?
What do we want this home to feel like, not just look like?
How do we design for healing, for rhythm, for joy?
How do we make space for memory without being trapped in the past?
How can a home support the nervous system, not overstimulate it?
What does safety look like when you’ve known the opposite?

Each decision has become a kind of emotional craftsmanship—a commitment to choosing what feels right over what simply looks right. Softness over status. Presence over perfection. Feeling over form.

The Butterfly Effect

This journey has stirred something I hadn’t felt in years—a quiet, deep-rooted love for designing homes from the inside out. Years ago, I stepped away from my architectural studies, three years in. Not because I didn’t love design, but because I longed for something more human. I didn’t want to just draw floor plans and construction documents—I wanted to focus on environments that reduce sensory overwhelm, encourage slow living, and support daily rituals—spaces where wellbeing and connection feel natural, not forced.

So I began again.

I moved to Waihi Beach, into my happy place - our beautiful bach by the sea - and completed an interior design degree by correspondence. Alongside it, I started a tiny homewares business—just a seed of an idea back then. Baby Flux :) 

Memory, Gently Held

Of course there are still many moments where the loss stings. So many things that cannot be remade or replaced. Souvenirs of 38 years of our family's lives, well-lived.

But those memories are being honoured in quieter ways—in the placement of a window to catch golden hour. In a long kitchen island made for deep conversations. In layout and structural details that say: you are safe here now.

A Future Built with Feeling

As we plan for cabinetry and sun paths, I’ve come to realise we’re not just designing a home—we’re shaping a way of life.

And in that process, we’ll have rebuilt more than a house.

Over the past year, I’ve returned to parts of myself I’d forgotten.
I’ve reclaimed so much of my creativity.
And most of all, I’ve redefined what it means to build a business—and a life—rooted in feeling, not just function. 

It’s taken a year of processing to see it clearly: the golden thread running through every blog post, every decision, every shift.

Designing happiness.

We’re not just rebuilding a family bach.
We’re rebuilding joy.
Belonging.
Safety.
Home.

And I’d love for you to come along on this journey with us.