The Blueprint of Broken Plans: Healing, Mess, and Two Poems.
I am a planner. I build matrices, I study floor plans, and I calculate the exact angle of the sun to optimize the melanopic lux hitting my desk at 2:00 PM. I like control.
So, a few weeks ago, I made a very calculated, very designer decision. I chose to transition my primary content format from producing videos to writing these longer-form blog posts. The logic was bulletproof. Video production requires an exhausting performance on the Front Stage. It requires setting up lighting, checking audio levels, and physically being in front of a lens pretending you aren't exhausted. Writing, I reasoned, was a Back Stage activity. It is highly efficient. It fits neatly into a volatile, unpredictable schedule. I could draft a post at 8:00 PM on a Tuesday while wearing sweatpants, schedule it for 10:00 AM on a Sunday, and the machine would just keep running.
But biology, as it turns out, does not care about your editorial calendar.
Over the past couple of weeks and months, my partner and I have both been struck down by a series of unforeseen physical injuries. I will spare you the clinical charts, but let us just say that the biomechanics of our household have ground to an absolute, shuddering halt. When your physical capacity drops to zero, the friction of your environment skyrockets.
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As a commercial registered interior designer, I am usually focused on optimizing spaces for peak human performance. We talk about ergonomic support, acoustic privacy, and thermal comfort. We design spaces assuming the occupant is a fully functioning, pain-free biological organism.
But when you are injured, the home stops being a machine for living and suddenly becomes an obstacle course.
When you cannot easily bend over, the bottom shelf of your refrigerator might as well be on the moon. When reaching your arms above your head sends a sharp spike of pain down your spine, the upper kitchen cabinets become dead zones. The laundry basket, usually just a minor chore, becomes a heavy, immovable object sitting in the corner of the bedroom, mocking you.
Right now, our house is a bit of a mess. There are things out of place. There are tasks left undone. And if you have followed Froh Collective for any amount of time, you know my golden rule: Mess is not a moral failing; it is a design failure. Usually, I mean that we have failed to design proper storage systems or functional drop-zones for our daily lives. But there is a corollary to that rule: Sometimes, the design hasn't failed, the biology has simply temporarily broken down. When your body is hurt, your environment will reflect that deficit. And the absolute worst thing you can do for your nervous system in that moment is to flood your body with cortisol by shaming yourself for the dust bunnies under the television stand.
Your body is injured. It does not need a pristine, magazine-ready living room. It needs a soft place to land. It needs to hug the sofa and just stay there until the tissue repairs itself.
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I had originally planned to publish a very different piece today. I had a whole outline drafted. I wanted to dive deep into the underlying "why" behind Froh Collective. I wanted to write an expansive essay about my history growing up in a high-control religious group, how that stripped me of my spatial agency, and why democratizing building science is so deeply important to my own recovery. I wanted to talk about how the environments we build can either cage us or set us free.
But I could not write it.
I sat down at my computer, looked out the window at the gray Victoria sky, and realized the cognitive load was just too heavy. The physical pain was too loud. My capacity was gone.
I felt the familiar, creeping edge of perfectionism - that old, toxic urge to push through the pain, perform for the audience, and hit the 10:00 AM Sunday deadline at all costs. I had to actively choose to let it go. I had to practice exactly what I preach: treat yourself with kindness, compassion, and love.
I didn't have the energy to draft a thesis on architectural psychology. But I did have the energy to look over at my partner, who was hurting right alongside me, and realize that we were in this together.
I didn't write the essay. But I did write something.
I wrote him a couple of poems this week. I wrote them to lift both of our spirits, to lower the stakes of our current physical reality, and to remind us of our love. Sometimes, the most productive thing you can do in a space is absolutely nothing but exist with the person you care about.
I want to share those two poems with you today.
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The first poem is simply about the passage of time. When you are in pain, time slows down to a crawl. The walls of your house feel closer together. It is easy to feel trapped by your own biology. But we are anchored together, and I know we will come out strong at the other end of our current struggles.
For David
The storm will break, it always does,
Though right now the sky is grey.
I’m anchored here right by your side,
No matter what comes our way.
Some days are heavy, the current is strong,
But we don’t have to swim alone.
Through every tide and crashing wave, T
ogether, we are home.
Breathe with me now, just take it slow,
The weight will start to fade.
I love you more than words can hold,
In the light, and in the shade.
We’ll take the steps, just one by one,
No rush to find the shore.
Each passing day will bring some peace,
And tomorrow, a little more.
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The second poem requires a little bit of context. For most of my partner’s life, I wasn't there. He had an entire history, a network of friends and family, and decades of inside jokes and memories long before we ever sat down for a coffee and decided to merge our lives.
Sometimes, I look at the people who have known him since he was young, and I feel a very specific, quiet jealousy. I am envious of the years they got to spend in his light before I finally found him. But that envy is eclipsed by the profound realization that out of everyone in the world, we ended up here, together, in this house on the West Coast. He is my perfect match. I wrote this to remind him that I am here, he is safe, and that I will always be at his side - no matter what our bodies or our schedules throw at us.
A Heart That Matches
For years I walked a quiet path,
And searched the world right through,
Looking for a single soul
With a heart that matched mine, too.
I met so many along the way,
But the edges wouldn't align,
Until that day we shared a coffee,
And your hand reached out for mine.
A perfect fit, a missing piece,
A soul so deep and bright,
You hold a kindness in your chest
That fills the darkest night.
I look at friends and family,
Who’ve known you all along,
Who’ve heard your laugh for years,
And known where you belong.
I must admit a gentle ache,
A quiet, sweet envy,
For all the years they had your light,
Before you found your way to me.
But now I have you, here and now,
My anchor and my spark.
The only heart that matches mine,
The brightest in the dark.
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We spend so much time talking about the performance of a home. We measure air changes per hour. We specify acoustic dampening materials. We worry about the color rendering index of our lightbulbs. And all of that hard science matters - it matters deeply.
But the hard science is only there to facilitate the soft landings.
The ultimate function of your home is not to be a perfectly curated backdrop for your productivity. It is to be a container for your humanity. It is the place where you are allowed to be broken, tired, and healing. It is the place where the pasta pot can sit in the sink for two days because you are too busy holding your partner's hand on the sofa.
If you are dealing with a setback today - whether it is a physical injury, a mental health block, or just the exhausting reality of being a human being in the modern world - I want you to look around your space and give yourself some grace. The schedules will fail. The laundry will pile up. The grand plans will have to wait.
As always, I want to remind you that love, compassion, and kindness always win. Let your house be messy today. Let your body rest.
I’m Erns. Stay safe, stay froh.
