The Lifestyle of Rehabbing - Response to TV Show Viewers: Post 2

Response to TV Show Viewers: Post 1 (January 23rd, 2026)

When folks who’ve watched American Rehab Charleston or Restoring Charleston take time to reach out, I want to be sure to write back, answer questions and provide background or clarity as best as I can. Although I realize most aren’t after some longwinded essay, I’m sometimes left with the feeling that my reply didn’t fully measure up after a viewer spent time and effort sending their thoughts my way. Since the shows are still being viewed, and some remain curious, I’m providing added insight.

I enjoyed my adventure in renovating a home of my own tremendously; more than I had imagined. With the help of a team of talented tradespeople, I resurrected a condemned property left for dead, a fire damaged ranch that many felt had been destined for the county landfill.

Far from a finance wizard, I had an in-depth view of the dollars and cents, from beginning to end of my first renovation. This gave me a solid handle on the basics impacting this rehab: upfront money, subcontractor costs, vendor expenses, mortgage payments, taxes, insurance, monthly utility bills. Because of my hands on approach to many of the scopes, work I enthusiastically dug into, I realized how this sort of DIY approach could make the math work. So, when my employer went under, I dove into my own house projects full time. This was when renovating began to consume every nook and cranny of my life, and looking back, I realize that rehabbing, more than just being what I did for work, became my lifestyle at that point.

As a sidenote, I imagine some careers and hobbies to be similar, to be more than just ways of earning a living or passing time. Working in a high-end restaurant, at least that sort of kitchen, or living the life of a hardcore surfer are examples of this in my mind. I don't think this take applies to every cook or waverider, but for some I think their commitment consumes them, perhaps even to a level that can be described as an obsession. Sure, they have family and friends and the usual responsibilities, but otherwise, these passions take precedent. These chefs and ocean athletes think and speak in a way that only they understand. They make sacrifices and life choices that are next level, all for this thing they do and live and love. Smells of their trade or sport likely register differently in their minds. I’m thinking that perfection means something to them that only folks like them can understand.  

So, back to myself in this decade of my career, renovating was my life, rehabbing was my lifestyle, working with my arms and neck coated in grime and filth, speaking the language fluently, knowing which scopes are hung, which are laid, and when the word brick requires an s. I worked hard and toward each phase change; closing day, demo day, putting together the team, the fresh smell of cut lumber before insulation, wet compound on sheetrock, the fuss over those spots where multiple trades meet and require a special solution so it looks like it's been planned that way all along, meeting realtors before the house is placed on the market.

I was always working out solutions, sometimes proactively, other times reactively, in my head day and night. And in this season, I would literally dream of project houses transforming neighborhoods that didn't exist. They felt real, actual since they were part of my world for months and years as I slept. I oversaw completed or ongoing renos in my waking hours and an entirely different, non-existent collection in dreamland. It was cool and bizarre at the same time.

During this time of my life, I frequently found myself helpless as I drove by someone else's junk, curbside or in a dumpster, feeling compelled to load something I might be able to use, other’s trash I deemed too good to waste.

And I thoughtlessly dressed the part; paint splattered t-shirts, worn boots, pullovers, and holy kneed blue jeans created from day-to-day attention to wood flooring or base or quarter round. Once, a bank manager said I’d need $500 to open an account before asking, “How much would you like to deposit?” My answer was fifty grand, causing her mouth to drop open as she explained, “We’re going to verify funds with the other bank.” I looked like a raggamuffin. I was living the life of a rehabber. It was a time when tape measures were my equivalent to sex wax or bench cutters.

I had a good long run, more than most, until new ingredients began to be woven into my world of hammers and sawdust.  

(Response to TV Show Viewers: Post 3 - January 28, 2026)