You know what’s fun?
Putting your house on the market and then realizing you’ve just staged a museum exhibit that no one is visiting.
I’ve vacuumed my way into new dimensions.
I’ve hidden my air fryer like it’s contraband.
I’ve lived in a state of perpetual fake cleanliness so long that I flinch when someone opens a drawer.
And yet… silence.
No calls. No showings.
Just me, sitting in my Airwick® Lavender scented living room, waiting for a Realtor text that never comes.
Everyone says, “The right buyer will come along.”
Sure. Probably riding a unicorn, guided by GPS, sometime in 2031.
Yes, yes — I know:
Everything unfolds when it’s meant to.
What’s for me won’t miss me.
Blah blah, divine orchestration.
Sure, divine timing and all —you know… that cute little phrase people toss around when your life is on backorder.
We have all heard them:
“Trust the process.”
“Everything happens when it’s meant to.”
“Your blessings are coming; they’re just in cosmic traffic.”
In the meantime, I’ve developed new hobbies:
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Talking to the “For Sale” sign while all the picture of the realtor does is stare at me and grin. Rude.
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Rearranging the throw pillows I’ve never actually used, and won’t allow anyone else to, either.
- I’ve whispered affirmations into my overpriced soy candles. Still no movement.
The house is spotless (if you don’t look too close). The energy is cleansed.
So where is everyone?
I swear the Universe is using my listing as a social experiment in patience.
Maybe the problem is I’ve over-manifested.
Maybe buyers can’t find me because I accidentally cloaked the house in manifestations and self-doubt.
Whatever it is, I’m on the edge of printing flyers that say:
“Gorgeous home, emotionally available, just wants to be seen. Call me.”
At this point, I’m convinced my spirit guides are on an extended coffee break, debating pumpkin spice versus a shot of whiskey while I stare at the For Sale sign in my yard wondering if divine timing comes with a tracking number.
Don’t get me wrong — I believe in the whole cosmic alignment thing. I burn candles, I do affirmations, I say thank-you to the moon. I’ve done the spiritual homework. But every once in a while, I’d like the Universe to show some hustle. Maybe reply with a,
“Hey girl, we got your manifestation request — it’s in processing. Estimated delivery: After Mercury retrograde.”
While everyone preaches patience, no one mentions the part where patience feels a lot like being ghosted by your very own destiny.
Still, I remind myself: things don’t bloom all at once. Even the prettiest garden has awkward dirt phases. So I keep watering my little dreams, lighting my candles, fluffing the throw pillows and staging my house for showings that never happen, and pretending I’m not glaring at the sky like, “You up there? Blink twice if you’re working on it.”
So no, patience isn’t on my vision board.
Results are. Progress is. Forward motion and maybe a glass of wine are.
Because, though I might be spiritual, I’m also a woman who appreciates a deadline.
