Lessons Learned from Moving Offices: Beyond Just Logistics

It’s been four months since our last blog post. Not because I haven’t thought about writing—I have—but because it’s hard to make sense of anything when you’re in the middle of something this big.

Maybe that’s actually the best time to write. But for me, I couldn’t find the clarity.

Maslow says shelter is one of our core needs—the thing that gives us safety. So it makes sense that when that felt uncertain, everything else got cloudy too. For the past few months, I’ve carried this quiet, heavy fear about the future of my practice. The kind that creeps in late at night and says, what if this all falls apart?

What if we have to shut down?

What if I have to let everyone go?

I know how to ground myself. I know how to regulate. But I’m still human—and sometimes my brain runs all the way to the worst-case scenario.

For the past two years, I’ve held a vision of growing this group practice into something bigger—something that could truly serve our community. I’ve experienced what it’s like to work in a supportive group, and I wanted to recreate that: a place where clinicians could connect between sessions, support each other, and not feel so alone in this work.

Over the past year, that vision started to take shape. Shelley joined first, then Kristy, then Michelle as our intern, and finally Migna in the fall—fully credentialed by the end of 2025.

By January, we had outgrown our space. We were seeing over 30 in-person clients a week, squeezing sessions together like a puzzle. Could we have pushed it further? Probably. But at the cost of sustainability—and honestly, at the cost of connection. We actually like each other. We wanted space to be a team.

I thought I had found the answer in a small house near my new apartment in Fletcher. It felt perfect. I could see it so clearly: waiting room in the living area, offices in the bedrooms, a warm, welcoming space.

I spent six weeks negotiating, planning, envisioning… only to have it fall apart.

After getting town approval for signage, I learned the county controlled the certificate of occupancy—and because the building was shifting from residential to commercial use, the requirements were strict. ADA upgrades. Structural changes. A price tag north of $20k.

Technically, not my responsibility—but dependent on a landlord who wasn’t ready to take that on.

I was offered a full refund. And even though it made logical sense, it was hard to walk away. I had already invested time, energy, money… hope.

But after sitting with it, I realized: this wasn’t going to solve the problem I actually had. And worse, it might create bigger ones down the line.

So I walked away.

The next space felt like redemption. Closer. Bigger. Four offices. Clean, modern, full of potential.

But the cracks showed quickly.

Small things at first—furniture that couldn’t be moved, restrictions that felt manageable. But then the pattern became clear: control, rigidity, and ultimately, conflict over something that crossed a legal line.

I could have fought it. But I didn’t.

Because the truth is—winning that fight wouldn’t have moved my practice forward.

So again, I walked away.

By this point, I was exhausted.

Thursday night, after learning the deal had officially fallen through, I sat there overwhelmed, scrolling through listings, trying to figure out what was next. All my previous criteria? Gone. I was ready to call anyone with an available room.

But more than anything, I was tired.

So I prayed.

I asked for doors to close where they needed to—and for the right one to open.

The very next day, I found out about the space we’re now in. Three offices available. Simple. Clean. Ready.

Saturday I toured it.

The following Saturday we moved in.

By Tuesday, we were fully set up.

This whole process taught me a few things. Don’t get too comfortable—because things can change fast. If something feels off with someone, trust that feeling. And maybe the biggest one:

Just because something looks like the answer doesn’t mean it is.

What I’m sitting with now, on the other side of all of this, is that growth rarely feels clean while you’re in it. It feels messy, uncertain, and honestly a little scary.

But looking back, every “no” was actually making space for something better.

Not just a better office—but a better fit, a better rhythm, and a better foundation for what we’re building.

The vision didn’t change.

The path did.

And I think that’s the real work—staying committed to where you’re going, even when how you get there keeps falling apart.

Because sometimes the door closing isn’t the problem.

It’s the redirection.

See below for images from Kindred's new work home:

A cozy new space for couples and therapeutic processing.

Our new child therapy space, perfect for play.

Our new art therapy creation and processing space.