The Buena Park House I Secretly Wanted To Keep

The Buena Park House I Secretly Wanted to Keep

Every house has a story. This one almost became part of ours.

The first time I saw this house, I fell in love before I ever walked through the front door.

I grew up in Anaheim, and this style of home was everywhere in the older neighborhoods around Disneyland. I’ve always loved the roofline. There was something charming about it that reminded me of a little cottage. Even though the house was tired, neglected, and in rough shape, I immediately saw what it could become.

That’s the thing about old houses.

Most people walk in and see problems.

I walk in and see possibilities.

Now, buying a flip isn’t like buying your forever home. You don’t spend hours wandering through every room imagining where your furniture will go. You have to move fast.

You walk through.

You assess the potential.

You run the numbers.

And then you decide whether you’re willing to take the risk.

So when I walked into this house, I did what I always do.

I looked past the mess.

And trust me, there was plenty of it.

The house was disgusting.

There was trash everywhere. The floors were filthy. Cat food covered parts of the floor. At one point we found maggots crawling around. We even found dead cats under the house.

Not exactly the glamorous side of renovating homes that shows up on Instagram.

But while most people would have turned around and run, my brain was already redesigning the house.

Move this wall.

Open up this room.

Add another bathroom.

Expand the kitchen.

Create better flow.

Those thoughts are what keep me up at night.

I can’t help it.

I see potential everywhere.

Then comes the exciting part.

You get the keys.

You walk in thinking about all the possibilities.

And then reality hits.

Because now the mess belongs to you.

The dumpsters arrive.

Demo begins.

Walls come down.

Dust gets everywhere.

The house somehow looks worse before it ever starts looking better.

But then something happens.

The trash disappears.

The clutter disappears.

The smell disappears… well, mostly.

And for the first time, you start to see the beauty hiding underneath it all.

That’s when my favorite part begins.

Opening spaces.

Adding beams.

Reworking floor plans.

Watching drywall go up.

Seeing a vision slowly become reality.

Most people only see the before and after.

They don’t see the hundreds of decisions in between.

The flooring samples spread across the table.

The tile selections.

The countertop decisions.

The paint colors.

The lighting.

The landscaping.

The contractor meetings.

The endless conversations about details most people would never notice.

Every decision matters.

Every detail matters.

And honestly, I love every bit of it.

Because eventually there comes a day when you walk into a house that was once forgotten and falling apart, and it’s beautiful again.

Families will gather there.

Kids will grow up there.

Holidays will be celebrated there.

Memories will be made there.

And somehow all the chaos, dust, stress, and long days become worth it.

This house was one of those projects.

And if I’m being honest, I secretly wanted to keep it.

The whole time I was designing it, I had my girls in mind.

They’ve always loved the beach, and I found myself creating a home that felt like something you’d stumble across in Newport Beach or Costa Mesa. I wanted it to feel bright, timeless, and elevated—coastal without being overly themed and classic without feeling stuffy.

From the window seat in the front room to the custom green-and-white beams in the living room, every design choice had a purpose.

From the kitchen to the bathrooms, every finish was selected with that vision in mind.

I kept imagining my girls living there someday.

Hosting friends.

Starting careers.

Building lives of their own.

Maybe that’s why this project felt different.

It wasn’t just another flip.

It felt personal.

But here’s the part nobody talks about.

Once the construction is complete, the furniture is staged, and the photos are taken, a whole new kind of stress begins.

Now you wait.

You worry.

You watch the market.

You pay the mortgage.

The insurance.

The utilities.

The taxes.

The landscaping.

And every other carrying cost that comes with owning a vacant property.

Every day the house sits, the expenses keep coming.

People see the finished photos and think the hard part is over.

Sometimes it’s not.

Sometimes the hardest part is trusting that the right buyer will walk through the front door and see what you saw from day one.

The charm.

The potential.

The story.

And hopefully they’ll love it as much as I do.

Until then, I’ll probably be dreaming about the next house.

With love,