Why I Build: A Woodworker’s Reckoning with Craft, Calling, and the Long Way Home

Most mornings start the same. Coffee at home before daybreak — slow, quiet, no noise yet. I usually read a book while I sip — sometimes fiction, sometimes business, always a little scripture. I like to always be learning, and it’s the one time I can actually retain anything before my mind is lost to the day. Mornings are sacred, and I’ve learned not to give them away.

Then I head in to the shop. It’s not much — a little dingy, and not in the best part of town — but I love the way the light comes through the windows, and it's space. In Nashville, rent alone will make you rethink what “enough” looks like.

I share the shop with two other guys. We keep out of each other’s way for the most part. Everyone’s just trying to get their work done, keeping the saws running and the lights on, trying to make a living without losing our minds.

The shop’s quiet when I get there. Tools still asleep. Yesterday’s sawdust still hanging in the air. There’s a beat — a pause — where it’s just me and the wood, and I remember: I chose this.

Or maybe it chose me. Hard to say some days.

Why I Build

People ask why I do this kind of work. They usually mean it as a compliment — “Wow, this must be so fulfilling” — but the truth is, it’s complicated. It’s rewarding, sure. But it’s also unforgiving. It demands everything — your time, your back, your money, your sanity — and doesn’t promise much in return.

So yeah, I ask myself the same question sometimes: Why do I build?

That question has followed me from project to project, across failed ventures, and through the slow grind of starting over — and lately, it’s been louder than usual.

The First Sparks

I didn’t grow up dreaming about cabinets. There was no grand plan. Just a slow pull toward working with my hands — the kind of work where something physical is left behind at the end of the day.

My first exposure to woodworking was when my grandfather made me a scooter from a few scraps of plywood and a deconstructed roller-skate. The first thing I did was rip the handle off and turn it into a skateboard. It was rough, but it rolled — and it was mine. I didn’t realize it then, but something about that stuck. The idea that you could make something out of nothing with a little time and a few tools.

Years later, I ended up in a small cabinet shop in South Carolina, apprenticing under a guy who’d been doing this longer than I’d been alive. He wasn’t the type to give a lot of instruction. You learned by watching, messing up, trying again. That’s where I figured out that precision mattered — that the details no one else notices still count. Man, I remember his old delivery van to this day, a brown Chevy G10 that you had to hold your mouth right and say a prayer to get cranked up.

At the time, I wasn’t chasing a dream. I just wanted to do work that felt real — where the effort showed up in the end result. I didn’t know it was going to become a career. But looking back, that’s where it started.

Not with a business plan. Not with a vision. Just steady work, a few small wins, and the sense that this might be something worth sticking with.

Losing the Thread

Like anything worth doing, there came a point where it stopped feeling simple.

The early years were full tilt. I took on whatever work I could, bought tools as I could afford them, and poured everything back into the business trying to keep it moving forward. I opened a shop, took on bigger jobs, chased growth. But I didn’t leave any margin — no cushion for when things slowed down.

And eventually, they did.

The shop folded. I ran out of runway. And when it all came apart, I didn’t just close the doors — I sold off the tools. All of them. Everything I’d built up over the years, gone in a matter of weeks. That was one of the hardest parts. Letting go of the gear felt like letting go of the whole identity.

After that, I stepped away.

I didn’t build for a long time. I took other jobs. Did what I needed to do. The idea of starting over felt too heavy — like I’d already had my shot and blown it.

It’s strange how fast something that once felt like a calling can start to feel like a cautionary tale. I didn’t know if I’d ever come back to it. And for a while, I didn’t.

Rebuilding from the Ground Up

Getting back into it didn’t happen all at once. There was no big moment, no sudden wave of inspiration. Just small signs. A side job here. A favor for a friend there. A little voice saying, maybe you’re not done yet.

At some point, I started picking up tools again — slowly, one at a time. Borrowed at first, then bought when I could. No shop. No overhead. Just me, working out of the driveway with a couple sawhorses and a job to finish before the weather turned.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt honest.

I’ll never forget what it felt like to use a real, cast-iron table saw again. The coldness of the steel. The hum of the motor kicking on. Something about that weight and sound made it real again — like the work was waking back up.

There was a clarity in starting over. No illusion of scale, no pressure to chase growth — just the work, stripped down to what mattered. Craft. Focus. Showing up and building something worth putting your name on.

And little by little, the vision came back. Not the old one. Something leaner. Wiser. Less about building a business that looked impressive from the outside, and more about building one that could last.

That’s where Vine & Branch really started to take root. Not in a storefront, but in the grind. The do-what-you-can-with-what-you-have kind of days. And in the middle of all that — even with nothing fancy around me — I remembered why I wanted to do this in the first place.

What I Build Now (and Why It Matters)

These days, the work looks a little different. The shop’s still small. The days are still long. But the approach has shifted.

I’m more deliberate now — about the projects I take on, the people I work with, the way I pace myself. I’ve learned that just because you can build something doesn’t mean you should. Not every job is worth the cost, and not every client is worth the stress. That’s taken time to figure out.

What hasn’t changed is the reason I build.

I still believe there’s something good about making things that last — about shaping raw material into something useful, beautiful, and personal. Whether it’s a kitchen, a piece of furniture, or a built-in that fits like it was always meant to be there, I want the end result to feel solid. Grounded. Right.

It’s never just about the cabinets. It’s about the way a space comes together. The way people live in it. The way good design can make the day flow a little easier. I care about that. And I care that the work has my name on it — even when no one else is looking.

This isn’t just a trade. It’s a rhythm. A way of staying rooted when everything else feels like it’s speeding up. I don’t need it to be flashy. I just want it to be real.

The Long Way Home

I used to think success would look a certain way — a big shop, a full crew, jobs lined up months in advance. But the longer I do this, the more I’ve come to value something else entirely: stability, clarity, craft. A sense that what I’m building, both in the shop and in life, is actually mine.

Getting here wasn’t fast. It wasn’t clean. And it sure as hell wasn’t easy. But starting over taught me something I didn’t know the first time around: that slow is okay. That simple can be strong. That showing up — even when things are uncertain — matters more than having it all figured out.

This work humbles me. It pushes back. But it also gives something in return — a rhythm, a purpose, a sense of being grounded in the real world, not just floating through it.

I don’t know exactly where all this is headed. I’ve let go of needing to. For now, I’m here — tools in hand, coffee in the morning, sawdust in the air — and I’m building again.

That’s enough.