This morning was wonderfully slow, the kind of slow where time doesn’t feel wasted but savored. Everyone in the house had their own lazy rhythm. No alarms, no rush, just soft hours unfolding. By two in the afternoon, we finally left for Pondok Gede to check our first house. We had it lightly renovated:
The old, tired canopy was taken down, so the two-story house could breathe and look elegant again.
The walls and fence got a fresh coat of white paint, giving it that “new beginnings” look.
The cracked tiles were replaced, no more tripping hazards waiting for unsuspecting guests.
The windows were repainted, catching a bit of shine when the sun hits.
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| House for sell or rent, near Mall Pondok Gede. Contact here. |
Now it’s neat, clean, and... how do I say this... ready to meet its "jodoh". Although we don’t know yet if the match is a buyer or a tenant. Should we sell it? Should we rent it out? We don’t have the answer yet. And for someone like me, uncertainty is both fascinating and slightly annoying.
It’s funny, isn’t it? We can control so many little things in life: paint colors, tile choices, etc. but the big decisions sometimes need to marinate. They need time. The right people. The right moment.
This is where the “problem” lies: waiting in uncertainty.
I don’t know about you, but waiting without clarity often feels like standing in the middle of a crossroad with no signposts. Psychologists actually call this intolerance of uncertainty, and research shows it’s linked to higher stress and anxiety levels. Humans, by default, dislike not knowing. We’d rather have a bad outcome than live in suspense.
But here’s what I’m learning from this house situation: uncertainty doesn’t always mean chaos. Sometimes, uncertainty is a sign of possibility.
If we sell, we close a chapter and open financial room for something else. If we rent, we keep a steady connection with the house while letting someone else fill it with life. Either way, it won’t be wasted. Either way, it will serve its purpose.
Life is like that too. Some stages of our lives aren’t meant to be figured out immediately. They’re meant to be prepared, then patiently handed over to time.
And then my eldest added another layer of perspective. She looked around and said, “Back then this house felt so big, but now it seems small.”
Of course, the house hasn’t changed: 105 m² of land, 160 m² of building. What shifted was her perspective. After living in our next house with 250 m² of land and 350 m² of building (plus private swimming pool), her definition of “big” has expanded.
I remembered how reluctant the kids were when we first talked about moving years ago. They said that they loved this house so much they didn’t feel like leaving. I told them, “That’s because you haven’t experienced the new one yet. Once you do, I’m sure you’ll love the new house more.” And that’s exactly what happened.
That’s growth. At first, change always feels uncomfortable because it’s unfamiliar. But once you live in it, it becomes your new comfort zone. What once felt too much suddenly feels just right. What once felt like home eventually feels too small, not because it lost its value, but because you grew.
Brené Brown once said, “Our willingness to own and engage with our vulnerability determines the depth of our courage and the clarity of our purpose.” Waiting for the right house match is vulnerable. It’s like putting your heart out and saying, “I don’t know who you are yet, but I’m ready when you come.” And growth, like my daughter’s shifting perspective, shows us that vulnerability often leads us to something better than we imagined.
After taking the mandatory “look, it’s so fresh now!” photos, we headed to Hachi Grill in Kemang. And wow, what a transformation. The little one-floor corner restaurant has grown into a huge, three-story establishment. It’s like meeting an old friend who used to be shy and skinny but now shows up at a reunion looking glamorous.
We were there to celebrate my dad-in-law's 72 birthday. The birthday dinner was loud, messy, and wonderful. There were eleven of us, not counting the servers who sang birthday songs for what felt like every other table in the restaurant. The kids got free toys and cotton candy. The adults feasted until our stomachs raised white flags. I even found myself grinning at the cotton candy, because who knew a simple sugary cloud could feel like a hug for the inner child?
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| Cartoonized version of our family pic so I don't have to get consent from each of them 😄 |
The house we’re preparing is in a waiting season. Our family gathering was in a celebrating season. Both are real, both are needed. Life is a rhythm of pauses and dances, of stillness and movement.
The problem isn’t uncertainty. The problem is how we often resist it, as if waiting means wasting. But maybe waiting is also living. Maybe waiting is the slow cooking of life, like shabu-shabu broth that tastes better the longer it simmers.
So how do we deal with uncertainty without losing our minds?
Research from the Journal of Anxiety Disorders suggests three practical ways:
Reframe uncertainty as opportunity. Instead of thinking “I don’t know yet,” think “Anything is still possible.”
Stay anchored in the present. While the house is waiting, we get to enjoy cotton candy, laughter, and birthday songs. The present still counts.
Set micro-deadlines. We don’t need to decide forever today. We can say, “Let’s revisit this in three months.” That creates movement without forcing answers.
I like to imagine the house as a person, sitting calmly, dressed in its new white paint, ready for a date but not rushing it. It’s not desperate. It’s confident that the right person, be it buyer or tenant, will show up when it’s time. Maybe I should learn from the house.
C.S. Lewis once wrote, “Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different?” That’s perspective. The house hasn’t changed, but we have. My eldest is right; what once felt big now feels small. Not because the walls shrank, but because we grew into bigger dreams.
I see the same thing in parenting. Day by day, my daughters don’t look that different. I make breakfast, remind them about chores, listen to their stories. But then one day, I notice they’ve outgrown the shoes I bought just last month, or I hear them speak with a maturity that surprises me. Suddenly, the little girls I once carried on my hip are taller than me, standing on their own ground. Growth was happening quietly all along, I just couldn’t see it in the daily routine.
Maybe that’s the nature of growth: it’s almost invisible in the moment. We wake up to the same walls, walk the same streets, sip the same coffee. But slowly, quietly, we change. Our capacity stretches. What used to intimidate us becomes familiar. What once felt like “too much” suddenly fits in our hands. One day we look back and realize, we are no longer who we used to be.
And maybe that’s why this house feels different now. It mirrors the shifts in us. It reminds me that sometimes the waiting season isn’t wasted; it’s just preparing us to notice how much we’ve actually grown.
So if you’re in an uncertain season, instead of panicking for answers, try treating it like my little white-painted house. Get yourself ready, tidy up what you can, shine your windows, remove the old canopy that no longer serves you. And then, wait with trust.
Because the right match always arrives, whether it’s for a house, a job, a dream, or even a version of ourselves.
Cheers,
Nuniek Tirta
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