The Second Garage

Last month, my wife and I moved.

It was our first move in years. Our new place is lovely, and it represents an exciting new chapter, a scary financial commitment, and the novel thrill of owning our first house - a place we can mold and shape over time.

All true.

So why do I keep thinking about my old garage?

On paper, it was nothing special. It was narrow. Old. When we got it, the paint was chipping badly, and there was brick dust everywhere. It was probably built 80 years ago and looked like it.

But to me, it was perfect.

Five years ago, when I first took it into my stewardship, I told my brother that no car would ever live in that garage. It was going to be my office, a workshop, bike storage, our gym, and occasionally a hangout spot for friends.

He reacted like a reasonable person reacting to a 10-by-18-foot brick box. With a healthy scoop of incredulity.

But I saw it as a blank canvas. Not one that felt intimidating, but one that felt forgiving. I didn’t feel constrained by it. I felt emboldened.

Over time, through a lot of building and interacting, that space became largely what I had hoped it would be. There was no pressure to get it right up front. I allowed myself to explore, iterate, succeed, and fail. And because it was a labor of love, all of those stages felt equally exciting. Each version learned from the last.

Now, in the new house, I have the same goals for what I want the garage to become. This time, I have more latitude to make changes. I’m the owner now. I’m starting with a dramatically better canvas.

The space is bigger. Cleaner. Seventy years younger. Easier to maintain.

And yet, it feels harder to begin.

Or maybe more specifically, it feels heavier to proceed.

This time, I have a finished version in mind. A very tangible outcome to hit or fall short of. That expectation has taken some of the lightness away. The first garage emerged without an ideal to live up to. This one feels like it has to be an improvement.

It feels like being asked to throw away a painting you’ve been working on for years and start over with a fresh canvas. The excitement of the first draft is different once you know what the finished version could look like.

I think this says something about creativity. About expectations. About imitation as a path to success.

So what to do?

I’m not exactly sure.

And to be clear, this has nothing to do with a lack of gratitude. I’m genuinely excited about this space as it exists right now - a bit of a mess, a landing zone for half-unpacked boxes, just weeks into living here.

For now, I’m going to allow this garage to be different. I’m going to try to set aside the anxiety that it needs to be the same or better than the last one, and let it become what it should be on its own.

Easier said than done. But I’m going to try to get excited again by looking at a blank canvas.