Living the Transition: Memory, Movement, and the Model We Need

No matter who we are or where we live, our lives are shaped by a series of transitions— most of them anchored to the places we call home. We all start somewhere: a first apartment, a shared space, a chance to define a life on our own terms. Eventually, many of us move in with a partner, invest in a home, renovate a kitchen, plant a garden, raise a family. Over time, we navigate the less glamorous realities—maintenance, repairs, lost receipts, unexpected emergencies. We age. Our parents age. We help them downsize. We wrestle with what to keep and what to leave behind. And eventually, we consider how to preserve what matters—for ourselves, for those we love, and for the next generation.

In each of these moments, we’re forced to make decisions—about things, about people, about time and money—often with very little guidance. The systems meant to help us are fragmented and impersonal. Discovery is hit-or-miss. Coordination is stressful. And the burden of figuring it all out falls, again and again, on the individual. It doesn’t have to be this way. It is for this reason that we are building the Large World Model for Domestic Life.

Building this model is informed by my personal experience. I’m somewhere around the midpoint of this journey. I grew up in Chicago, studied in Ithaca, New York, and spent meaningful time living in Paris, Rome, and Manhattan—each place shaping my understanding of what home can be. I’ve lived in open lofts and in historic brownstones, moved in with the person I would later marry, purchased property together, and took on the full arc of a gut renovation of an 1877 townhouse.

Professionally, I’ve worked as an architect, interior designer, and entrepreneur. I’ve spent years navigating the deeply frustrating and fragmented world of sourcing furniture, managing contractors, coordinating trades, overseeing budgets, and making sense of mismatched schedules and incomplete records. I've seen how complex—and how inefficient—the system is, even for those of us who work inside it. Every step along the way has made the need for something better increasingly clear. The Large World Model for Domestic Life is being built directly in response to these lived challenges.

As often happens in life, timing lined up in a way that was both unexpected and strangely poetic. Just as I was deep in the process of raising funds to build the first version of the Large World Model for Domestic Life, my parents decided it was finally time to downsize. For the past several years, they divided their time between Chicago and Santa Fe—spending winters and summers in the high desert, and spring and fall back in the city where they built their lives together. In Chicago, they still lived in the same home they purchased in 1983, a year before I was born.

That home was remarkable. Situated just steps from the University of Chicago campus—where my father taught and worked for 42 years, and where my mother earned her MBA—it offered both beauty and history. Built in 1901 by the famed theater architects Rapp and Rapp, it was originally a wedding gift from former Chicago mayor John A. Roche to his daughter. With 4,400 square feet spread across three floors and a basement, it had been a perfect place to raise a family. But over time, the space began to feel oversized for two people—and the stairs, increasingly impractical.

The house, for all its beauty and history, had become increasingly hard to manage from a distance. Every winter, we crossed our fingers that a pipe wouldn’t burst while it sat empty. Every time something went wrong—a water heater leak, a dying refrigerator, a jammed window sash—I was the one who had to be there to troubleshoot it. This experience reminded me of just how vulnerable we are when homes sit idle. When responsibilities aren’t clearly delegated. When systems aren’t centralized. And it underscored just how important it is to build a platform that can manage multiple properties both as an asset and as living environments with maintenance schedules, aging infrastructure, and real human needs.

Their wish list was clear: a high-end, single-level, three-bedroom condo, around 2,300 square feet. It had to be in a boutique elevator building with indoor parking. It needed to be turnkey—no renovations, no compromises. A doorman would be a bonus. And it had to be in a walkable neighborhood with great restaurants. In short, they wanted ease, elegance, and efficiency in the next phase of life. While they were ready to downsize, my parents also hoped to keep the home they had lived in—and loved—for 43 years within the family. For me, as an architect and someone deeply invested in the preservation of historic architecture, the opportunity was impossible to pass up. The house was more than beautiful. It was irreplaceable. Perfectly situated in one of Chicago’s most intellectually rich and architecturally diverse neighborhoods, it held layers of meaning—personal, cultural, and spatial. 

Many of my closest friends from childhood now lived just blocks away, raising families of their own. And homes like this—gracious, character-filled, and tied to a distinct moment in Chicago’s history—rarely, if ever, come on the market. The decision came easily: my husband and I would sell our 1877 townhouse and move into the family home. It was a way to honor the past while building our future.

With their criteria in mind, my parents focused their search on River North and the West Loop—two vibrant, walkable neighborhoods that offered the right mix of culture, convenience, and modern amenities. The original plan was to take things slowly, to make the move within a year or two. But then, as these things often go, they found an apartment that was perfect. It met every one of their requirements—location, layout, size, finish quality, and building type. They made an offer, and it was quickly accepted.

That single decision triggered a cascade of activity. The long, abstract idea of downsizing suddenly became immediate. And to make things more complex, they had already planned to leave for their second home in Santa Fe by July 1st. That left just a few short weeks to prepare the house, sort through a lifetime of belongings, pack, and coordinate the move—all while they were getting ready to leave town. Fortunately, I had something most people don’t. While the OurThings platform wasn’t live yet, I had already written the underlying protocols—the step-by-step frameworks we’re building into the Large World Model for Domestic Life. So I did what we hope every member of our platform will eventually be able to do: I followed the script. And it worked. Even in its offline, prototype form, the structure helped streamline the chaos.

The first step was the hardest: clearing out the layers of accumulation that had built up over 43 years. This process involved going through seven bedrooms and their closets, a full basement, endless drawers, filing cabinets, and shelves. There was no inventory. No catalog. My parents didn’t even know what they really owned anymore. What made it harder was that mixed in with the clutter were real treasures—family heirlooms, valuable documents, vintage Italian furniture, antique lighting, musical instruments, and even a wine cellar with bottles dating back to the 1960s.

As I worked my way through it all, I kept thinking: they had saved everything—but no one could find anything. Records existed, but they weren’t centralized. Paperwork lived in one place, objects in another, meaning was scattered across the house. There was no clear system for knowing what had value, what needed to be preserved, or where it all lived. And so it fell to me to decipher it.

This is exactly where the value of a digital twin becomes clear. It can serve as a living archive of the home that goes beyond the floor plan in order to fully account for contents, history, and emotional significance. It becomes something that could have been searched, annotated, and inherited. Such a tool would have allowed me to know that the box in the corner of the attic held original blueprints or family photographs as opposed to a stack of worthless old magazines.

Beyond the question of memory lay the challenge of disposal. There were objects to be recycled. Furniture that could be reused. Documents that needed secure shredding. Items that had resale value, from collectible design pieces to quirky vintage glass bottles. Having a streamlined system for categorizing and managing each of these flows would have saved hours of decision fatigue and dozens of redundant conversations. It's exactly the kind of real-world friction the Large World Model is being designed to eliminate. It was fortunate that I was in a position to help. Many people in their seventies don’t have adult children living nearby, let alone one with the flexibility—and willingness—to sort through three floors of belongings. There aren’t many trusted, turnkey services for this kind of work. And even when you can find someone, they often lack the sensitivity required to discern what’s meaningful, what’s trash, and what’s worth preserving. That kind of discretion is hard to hire for. Unfortunately, it is a process that is hard to avoid.

Another advantage I had—one that many people don’t—is deep local knowledge. I’ve lived in Chicago for most of my life. I know which movers are reliable. I know which junk removal company will actually recycle and repurpose instead of just hauling everything to a landfill. I know which painters show up on time and do excellent work without cutting corners. When the time came to act, I didn’t have to do research. I didn’t have to scroll through reviews. I called New City Moving, The Honest Junk Company—who work closely with the Chicago Furniture Bank to reuse furniture and responsibly dispose of waste—Lookswell Painting to freshen the house before move-in, and Fortune Masonry to touch up the exterior envelope. I already had a contractor lined up for minor repairs and improvements.

All of this meant that I could move quickly and confidently. But it also reminded me how many people are flying blind. Without a trusted network, you’re stuck with guesswork and online search. That’s part of what the Large World Model is designed to fix. It goes beyond storing your plans by connecting you to a curated network of service providers, tailored to your location, your needs, and your standards. It turns what’s now a time-consuming and error-prone search into a coordinated, confident action.

At the same time that I was managing my parents’ move and prepping their house, I was also getting ready to sell my own. My husband and I had spent years restoring and maintaining our 1877 townhouse, and that level of care paid off. We had tracked every improvement, kept every receipt, and had detailed records ready for capital gains calculations and future buyers. The home was thoughtfully furnished and well-kept—not in a way that was staged or artificial, but in a way that reflected a steady, intentional commitment to quality over time.

When the time came to list, the photographer barely had to move a chair. There were no last-minute scrambles to declutter or repair. The house was ready because it had been managed well all along. That kind of preparation isn’t magic—it’s process, it’s systems, and it’s exactly what OurThings is being built to support. With the LWM, the routines of homeownership—maintenance, upgrades, furnishings, financial tracking—become less like fire drills and more like steady, thoughtful stewardship. It helps people not only live better in their homes, but also move away from them with confidence and value.

Eventually, all of the pieces started to move into place. My parents closed on their new condo. Their belongings were packed and moved. Their former home—the one I had grown up in—was now becoming mine. And even though I had prepared for it, there was still a strange gravity to that moment. Moving into a home that holds so much history, so many personal layers, is different from moving into any other space. More than paint colors and deciding where to put the sofa, it was important to honor what came before while making room for what would come next. There were small modifications to make—adjusting lighting, refinishing a few surfaces, reconfiguring spaces that once belonged to them and now needed to function for us. I had a clear plan and a reliable contractor. But still, the process involved a dozen moving parts, all of which had to be timed just right: move-in, repairs, deliveries, decor, and scheduling.

Even with the most carefully conceived plan, a move provokes its own quiet turbulence. I found myself anticipating everything that could go wrong—the potential damage to property, the awkwardness of inviting strangers into the most private corners of my life, even the risk of injury as heavy objects shifted from one set of hands to another. That anxiety began to soften only when I cultivated trust—both in the human agents carrying out the work and in the plan I had built via my experience with OurThings. Having a clear sequence and a shared sense of purpose made the unknowns less daunting and gave each participant a framework for acting with care.

No matter how thorough the preparation, life leaks in around the edges. A missing key, misplaced by painters, threatened access to heirloom silver on the very day we were rushing to host a farewell party for a home we had lived in for a decade. A hidden wiring defect left by previous owners cut power to the garage, which in turn triggered a complete outage of the house just as we were preparing it for sale. Each of these moments demanded quick decision-making, improvisation, and a certain resilience. They were reminders that even with planning, transition is rarely seamless—and that having systems and support ready can mean the difference between chaos and a manageable pivot.

The experience reinforced something I already knew but now felt even more viscerally: the home is not a static place. It’s a living system, full of dependencies and transitions, where even seemingly minor changes have ripple effects. Without a persistent model to hold it all—physical space, personal context, financial records, stylistic vision, maintenance needs—it’s far too easy to feel overwhelmed. 

Once the moves were complete, a new phase began: turning my parent’s new condo into a comfortable and beautiful home. Decorating their condo presented a familiar challenge—an endless sea of choices. In today’s market, the number of available furnishings, finishes, and accessories is staggering. Even with clear preferences, it’s easy to get lost in decision fatigue, overwhelmed by the infinite scroll of possibilities and the lack of real contextual guidance. In this case, I became the Large World Model. I understood the layout, proportions, natural light, and circulation patterns of their new space. I knew their style, their values, their limitations. I could sift through the noise and quickly identify the right pieces—ones that would fit the scale of the rooms, match their aesthetic, and function well over time. For most people, this step is agonizing. The right match is buried under layers of poor filters, incompatible inventory systems, and impersonal recommendations.

For my new home—their former home—the process was equally nuanced but in a different way. It wasn’t about starting from scratch. It was about blending what stayed with what arrived. The house retained a number of high-end antiques, family heirlooms, and carefully chosen pieces that had long defined its character. The challenge was to weave in my own furniture, my own art, and my own sensibility without disrupting what made the house special in the first place. That meant making decisions not just about what to place where, but about how to harmonize time periods, textures, materials, and stories. This is where the true power of the Large World Model comes into focus. More than just just helping to choose things, it helps you understand your space, reflect your taste, and make decisions in context. It enables continuity in design, even through transitions. It honors legacy while supporting evolution. And most importantly, it relieves people of the burden of figuring it all out on their own.

With the process complete, I could finally relax and reflect on the sheer physicality of moving that lies beyond planning and crisis management. Organizing, cleaning, sorting, bagging, staging, giving away; moving items of value; implementing organizational strategies; packing and unpacking boxes; setting up furniture and tweaking its final placement—all of this demanded energy and focus. Many final decisions could only be made in situ, as we saw how light fell across a wall or how one piece of art resonated with another. A home’s narrative emerges in these adjustments: a sequence of spaces that reflects its owners—past, present, and future—and that must remain dynamic if it is to stay relevant both to its occupants and to the wider world.

It also became clear how emotional the process really was for everyone involved. Each object carried its own memory, a tug back to previous chapters. The process called for a delicate balance: honoring those memories while releasing their hold, delegating roles to family and friends while maintaining enough distance to let go. With that distance came the ability to revel in stories as they surfaced, to welcome the unfolding of a new chapter without clinging too tightly to the old one. I imagine that OurThings support in this sphere will be just as important as the logistical help it can provide. It can become a true partner in negotiating both material and emotional transitions.

Once the move was complete, the challenge was now to adapt to new routines. My family had to renegotiate the rhythm of domestic routines—how and where we get dressed, prepare breakfast, cook dinner, walk the dog, park the car, and buy groceries. In our case, the novelty of a double move underscored that home is about people and habits as much as about walls and objects. The habitat is a reflection of its inhabitants, and our goal was to streamline how things and spaces support those habits so that the transition became an opportunity rather than a disruption.

Transition does not end with unpacking boxes. There are ongoing projects, questions of community, and the desire to welcome friends and family into a new home to share what has been accomplished and to stage the next phase of time together. A housewarming party becomes both a social formality as well as a bridge between communities and generations, a way of knitting oneself into a new context while honoring the old.

Ultimately, fitting a new home into one’s identity—and evolving that identity to reflect the home—is an ongoing act. Hosting others, using the home as a stage for various communities, creating frames of expectation and possibility: all of this is a kind of social architecture. Not everyone is equally adept at constructing it, but with guidance and support, it can lead to richer spaces of connection for one’s immediate family and the broader community one wishes to cultivate.

Looking back, I am acutely aware of the privilege embedded in this story—the properties involved, the collections they contain, and the knowledge base that allowed us to organize and streamline a process that could easily have taken far longer. We completed in ten weeks what might normally stretch across months. My parents' new home was not only livable but fully unpacked, art hung, within one week; a 4,400-square-foot house was settled in just fourteen days. Speed magnified the effort but also highlighted what can be achieved when planning, resources, and support align.

This process—downscaling one home, preparing another, managing repairs, handling logistics, coordinating services, preserving legacy, and reimagining space—touches on almost every domain of domestic life. And it proved to me, unequivocally, that the Large World Model is more than a speculative idea. It’s an essential platform for a reality millions of people are already living through.

More than a product, I hope to build an infrastructure for continuity, beauty, and stewardship that will become a support system for people navigating the most personal and most universal transitions of their lives. I also believe that having access to such a product is long overdue.

Download a PDF with additional images of the transition between these three homes HERE.