The Quest for Ravenhawk

Is the Magic Real?

The Quest for Ravenhawk

Some people spend their evenings scrolling Instagram for travel inspo or exfoliation hacks. I, however, had a long-standing habit of staying up way too late with a bowl of vegan chocolate mousse and Zillow. That little blue map became the manifestation board for my inner cat-lady matriarch—imagining a home for me, my three kids, my four dogs, my four cats, and my 80-year-old mother—a place where chaos would be contained by drywall and ideally, a fenced yard.

For me, buying a house was never just about buying one. It was about finally breaking a chain of generational poverty, creating stability, and—if possible—finding a patch of earth large enough that no one had to share a bedroom or a food bowl.

In my twenties, I’d lived in the Catskills, in a modest cottage in the woods where deer wandered past my window and a black bear occasionally sauntered to challenge my dog to a staring contest. It was perfect. A vegetable garden. A porch. The fantasy of rustic solitude, minus the dysentery. I promised myself I would always live like that.

Then came children. First one, then two more at once, and with them, an exponential increase in the animal population. There was the miniature schnauzer who helped raise my oldest. Then came the two youngest, both in diapers, dropped in my lap during a pandemic. Then there was Velveteen, the pregnant stray we brought back from Baja who gave birth to thirteen puppies in my closet. We kept one. Naturally, add the four black cats no one else wanted to adopt, and you’ve got a sitcom.

The house hunt became an exercise in delusion. My list of non-negotiables included four bedrooms, a large yard, a quiet street, and a good school district. On a single-mom budget, in Southern California, it was like ordering Buddha bowl at a gas station.

Any homes that hit my criteria inevitably led to suburbia in Riverside County, where every street looked like someone had clicked “copy-paste” on a model home. Each yard was 7,400 square feet of beige, and the whole place screamed HOA regulations and neighbors who report you for hanging laundry.

I felt sad. And weirdly guilty.

Was it wrong to still want a little bit of wildness? Was I being selfish, dreaming of trees and dirt roads while dragging three kids and a geriatric mother into a place with no Uber Eats? Friends tried to console me. “You can always get your country home when the kids are grown.” But I’m not 28. I’m the older mom. When my kids are grown, I’ll be battling coyotes with a cane.

Then it happened. I found the dream house. It was perched at 4,000 feet in the San Jacinto Mountains on an acre of land surrounded by wildness, but not the Deliverance kind—this had paved roads nearby and a fire station six minutes away. A nearby RV resort boasted an Olympic-sized pool, arcade, restaurant, and ice cream shop. Basically, a wilderness amusement retreat.

The day before I visited, I asked the Universe for a sign. “If this is our home,” I whispered, “show me a raven and a hawk. Side by side.” Specific, I know. I wanted clarity, not metaphors.

We drove up the mountain, my former French au pair Marie riding shotgun. Just as we hit the last dirt road, Marie gasped and pointed: “Regarde! A raven and a hawk!” There they were. Just chilling together like a spiritual buddy cop duo. The sign was clear.

We loved the house. The kids chose their rooms. I sat on the porch and listened to the kind of silence you can only hear in the forest. The former owner’s son told me stories about his mom, a teacher who raised six boys and horses on that land. I felt like I’d found my ancestral ghost twin.

We put in an offer. It was accepted. I named the place Ravenhawk. We’d bring my mom to spend her final years there. We’d finally have a home. A real one.

Then the inspection came in. The house needed $150K in repairs. The seller would cover $30K. I’d be left holding the drywall and the debt.

I cried. Not quiet, single-tear movie crying. Full-body, ugly-face sobbing. The kind where even the dog looks concerned.

My five-year-old, in the most devastating act of optimism, whispered, “Mommy, that house is so beautiful. I can’t wait to live there.” My 11-year-old had already a poster board of our planned summer activities. I couldn’t tell them yet.

The worst part? Feeling betrayed by my sign. The raven. The hawk. Was that not enough? Was the Universe just trolling me?

But then I realized—the magic wasn’t in the outcome. The magic was in the journey. Ravenhawk wasn’t just a house. It was a story I needed to live in order to keep going. To believe. To remember what hope looks like.

I’ve now lost two homes in escrow. I’m in contract for a third. The obstacles continue. Every time, I start again. Every time, the stakes feel impossibly high. And yet, this morning, my six-year-old tied her shoes on her own for the first time.

Victory.

That’s Ravenhawk, too.

The signs are real. The Universe is not Amazon Prime—it doesn’t guarantee delivery but gives you directions even when the road is bumpy—especially when it is.

Onward, friends. The holy grail is within.