09/14/2025
Three months after the divorce papers were signed, I stood at the bottom of these death-trap stairs holding a power tool for the first time in my life. The realtor had literally written "hazardous staircase" on the inspection report. Twenty-seven years of marriage, and suddenly I owned a farmhouse that was falling apart faster than my confidence.
The corrugated tin was supposed to be temporary. Found some leftover sheets on Tedooo app from a woman who'd just renovated her own barn after her husband told her she couldn't. Twenty bucks a sheet and her phone number for moral support. Every cut I made felt like cutting away the old me - the one who waited for someone else to fix things. My hands bled, my back screamed, but something fierce woke up inside me with each step I transformed. My ex-husband came to pick up boxes and saw me up there with my safety goggles and metal sheets. "You're going to hurt yourself," he said. I just kept working.
These stairs aren't Pinterest pretty. They're industrial and bold and completely mine. Every imperfect edge reminds me that I didn't need permission or approval or a man to make my house safe. My daughter brought her new boyfriend over last week and he said, "Your mom really did this herself?" She just smiled and said, "My mom does everything herself now." Sometimes the best revenge isn't living well - it's living capable. These tin-covered stairs might not be everyone's style, but they're strong enough to hold me as I climb toward whatever comes next.
