Dear Women
Jan Vondrák, 10/25 (Written for Harper's Bazaar magazine)
How do you keep your head when your old life is crumbling and your new one is only just taking shape? As an architect and a father, I came to realize that the most important thing you ever build isn't a house—it's the bond that holds you together even through absolute chaos.
Dear women,
I would like to write a few words to you about how to stay sane. Or rather, how not to lose your mind entirely when everything around you starts to go up in flames and your past life collapses like a house of cards. Spring is a time of hope. Trees swell their buds to the bursting point, the air is full of birdsong, and the sun finally dares to shine into the corners that spent all winter in the dark. For us architects, it is also the start of a new season—the building season. For me personally, spring of last year changed everything. My wife Marie and I started building a house, and at the same time, we were expecting our daughter, Ada. Although I love to advise my clients against realizing these two major life milestones simultaneously, it just happened. And so we launched two parallel projects, each with its own dynamics, rhythm, and demands, yet equally taxing on our patience and faith in a happy ending. While I walked the site with a hardhat on my head and plans in hand, Marie was figuring out how to navigate the twists and turns of future motherhood. Our life, once packed with trips and centered solely around the two of us, vanished for good. Ada was born in June. And right around that time, the construction of our house went into high gear. There were moments when I felt like both projects were going to grind me to dust—physically, mentally, and emotionally in our relationship. And yet in that chaos, in that intense hustle where we often didn't even have time to say good morning to each other, I realized one crucial thing: the most precious thing we have in life isn't a house. Nor is it a child, as much of a gift as that is. The most precious thing is the relationship. The thing that holds two people together when everything around them is shifting. That quiet strength that carries you through even when you're exhausted, irritated, and sleep-deprived. It's love—the daily choice to stay together, even when it would be easier to just walk away.
Dear women, I admire you for your ability to carry the load, to hold down the fort, and to not lose your mind. Thank you for teaching us—often scattered as we are, buried in performance and results—how to slow down. Thank you for holding our hands even when we don't know where we're going ourselves. And if I may offer a piece of advice from the perspective of a man, an architect, and a new father, it is simply this: don't expect perfection. Not from a house, not from a partner, and not from life. Things break, collapse, and fail to go according to plan. But if amid all of it you can manage to just be together, if you can sit side by side on an unmade bed in the evening and simply be, then you've already won.
With humility and respect,
Jan
