Under Construction: What Fallingwater Means to Me Now

In high school in the 90s, I took an Art class with Mrs. Finney—one of those teachers you never forget. She had this way of pushing us to see the world differently. Not just what was in front of us, but what could be there. She told us to think big, to be bold, to notice beauty in everyday things. For a kid like me, that mattered.

My Senior year, my artclass took a fieldtrip to Fallingwater.

At the time, I was already interested in architecture. I loved my CAD class—the precision of it, the creativity, the way you could design an entire space from nothing but lines and measurements. It made sense to me in a way a lot of other subjects didn’t.

I wasn’t the best student. I didn’t think of myself as particularly smart, and we didn’t have money. College, especially for something like architecture, didn’t feel like a real option. I applied to my dream college just for the hell of it - Arizona State and the rejection came faster than anything ever has.  So even though I had this interest—this pull toward design—I didn’t have the confidence or support to fully believe I could pursue it.

Fallingwater should have been the highlight of that dream.

But when we got there, it was under construction.

There were structural issues. Water damage. The flat roof—something that made the house famous—was also part of the problem. The building needed reinforcement. Work had to be done to protect it from the very environment it was designed to embrace.

At the time, I didn’t have the words for what that meant. It just felt strange. This place I had heard about, this iconic example of design, wasn’t perfect. It needed fixing.

Now, I think about that differently.

Because that’s exactly what life looks like.

Back then, my path felt limited. I didn’t think I had what it took—whether that was money, ability, or just confidence. My dreams weren’t loud or bold. They were quiet, and honestly, a little dim. Not because they didn’t matter, but because I didn’t have the strength I have today to push against what felt like reality.

So I didn’t become an architect.

But life has a sense of humor. Now I work with architects.

I’m around the field I once imagined for myself, just from a different angle. Close enough to understand it, to appreciate it, and to see how much work goes into making something both functional and meaningful.

And I think back to that trip more often than I expected I would.

Fallingwater wasn’t perfect. It needed work to stay standing.

And that doesn’t take away from its beauty or importance—it’s part of the story.

The same could be said for all of us.

We all want to build something meaningful with our lives. We want it to matter, to look a certain way, to reflect who we are. But along the way, things shift. Foundations crack. Plans change. Sometimes we realize we built parts of our lives without the support they really needed.

So we go back and reinforce them.

We rebuild.

For me, faith has become part of that process. Not in a perfect or polished way, but in a steady, grounding way. It’s the framework I didn’t fully have when I was younger—the thing that helps hold everything together when life puts pressure on the structure.

And there’s still art in it too.

Mrs. Finney was right about that part. Learning to see your life through the eyes of an artist changes things. It helps you recognize that even the imperfect parts—the setbacks, the detours, the things you didn’t become—can still be meaningful. Still part of something worth building.

I didn’t go to college for architecture. I didn’t follow that exact path.

But I didn’t lose it either.

It just took shape differently.

And like Fallingwater, it stands—not because it was flawless, but because it’s been cared for along the way