Coming Back to Life

At Home, on Main Street, and in Myself

I stumbled onto an article this week about something called Universe 25… a 1960s experiment carried out by American ethologist John B. Calhoun.

He built what he called "Mouse Paradise," where mice were given a perfect little world: food, water, safety, and comfort. No predators. No scarcity. No real reason to struggle.

At first, their world thrived. The population doubled and doubled again. But as the numbers grew, something strange happened. The social order collapsed. Mothers stopped caring for their young. Males became aggressive or withdrawn. And then came the ones that haunted me most… the “beautiful ones.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about them. Because in some ways, I had come dangerously close to becoming one of them.

Calhoun designed the experiment to study the effects of overcrowding, but what he found went far beyond the physical limits of space. It wasn’t the lack of room that destroyed them… it was what happened after the crowding began: the loss of purpose, the breakdown of relationships, the quiet slide into isolation.

And isn’t that what so many of us feel today? We’re digitally crowded, information-crowded, socially overstimulated, yet somehow, spiritually isolated.

The mice didn’t fight. They didn’t nurture. They didn’t connect. They simply withdrew to quiet corners, spending their days grooming themselves, making their nests tidy, and living out their lives in peace, but also in complete isolation.

The Cocoon

I was in my home for just two short months when Covid hit, so naturally, I started building my own little world. I made every inch exactly how I wanted it. 

After COVID, and then during a long stretch of illness, I pulled away from the world. Not out of fear, exactly, but exhaustion. I needed to heal. I built myself a sanctuary… a small, curated home that fit me perfectly for the first time in my life.

I made my little “giant she shed” into a reflection of everything I love: A piano and music room. An office where I could work, create, and write. A guest room that doubles as an exercise space. A kitchen that works perfectly for one person. A fireplace for cozy movie nights. A sunroom filled with light and windows for reading. And a peaceful patio, where I learned the value of birdwatching. I filled my home with books, memories, and the things that brought me calm.

And yet, as the months passed, I realized something I didn’t want to admit: I had built the perfect little world, and then stopped living in it.

But here’s the difference: the thread that saved me, unlike those mice? I still had people.

I had neighbors who waved when I stepped outside. Friends who texted or dropped off soup. Kids who called out my name from their bikes. A best friend who never stopped checking in. Those small, ordinary moments kept something vital alive.

Maybe that’s the lesson of Universe 25: It’s not isolation that destroys us, it’s disconnection.

Before all this, I was the polar opposite. I traveled constantly, spent weekends dancing, met friends for dinner, talked to strangers, and laughed until my cheeks hurt. I didn’t even care much about my house back then. It was just a place to crash between adventures.

Now, these two versions of me… the one who needed to retreat and the one who lived fully… have started to meet somewhere in the middle.

But finding that middle ground also means knowing my limits. I’ve learned that health and peace don’t come from doing more; they come from doing what matters. I’ll never be the version of myself who ran from one thing to the next, always in motion, always producing. Those days served their purpose, but this season asks for something different.

The Spark

This past weekend, while trimming the rose bushes, a neighbor stopped by with her dogs. We started talking. Then another joined. Then a few kids wandered up, laughing. For a while, our little patch of sidewalk turned into an impromptu town square.

And that’s when it hit me. The experiment wasn’t just about individuals; it was about community. It was about what happens when society stops looking out for each other, when we stop gathering, mentoring, helping, and seeing.

We’re living through our own kind of crowding now, physically close and even digitally closer, yet emotionally miles apart. We’ve gotten good at curating beautiful homes, but not always at opening the door.

The truth is, we all go through seasons of retreat. Sometimes we have to pull back to heal, or reset, or simply breathe. There’s no shame in that. But I think the trick is remembering to come back… to lift our heads, step outside, and reconnect when the time is right.

Humans have one gift those mice never did: awareness.
We can recognize when we’ve gone too quiet.
We can open the door again.
We can choose connection.

The Antidote

When I look around my home now, I still love it. It’s still my sanctuary. But I’m learning that it’s meant to be shared. To have the piano played for guests. To sit around the dining table with my book club gals. To wave at neighbors from the porch instead of just through the window.

Maybe the antidote to Universe 25 isn’t grand or scientific at all. Maybe it’s just one person choosing to say hello again.

So, I don’t think we’re doomed to become “the beautiful ones.” We’re just tired. Distracted. Maybe even scared to hope that community still matters.

But I’ve seen enough small towns to know better. I’ve stood on their Main Streets. I’ve watched a store owner sweep his sidewalk at dawn. I’ve seen kids walk to the ice-cream shop after school, old friends chatting on a bench, porch lights glowing like quiet beacons. Those things are not gone, they’re just waiting for us to notice them again.

Destination Main Street — Rediscovered

That afternoon in the yard made me think about my work and Destination Main Street. I started it more than a decade ago to celebrate the stories and faces that make a town feel alive. Over the years, I shared photos and small discoveries… pretty storefronts, charming diners, hidden gems… but I rarely dug in. I showed the surface beauty, not the heartbeat.

Looking back, I think it’s because I didn’t have the time. I was working, traveling, juggling clients, living life in fast-forward. I was always moving, always producing, rarely pausing.

Now, I have time. And I have perspective.

As I step into this new season of life, retiring from social-media management and leaning into writing, photography, and creative work, I feel Destination Main Street evolving with me. It’s not just about visiting small towns anymore. It’s about understanding them. What makes them special? Why do they matter? Why do they hold onto something the rest of the world seems to be losing?

This next version of Destination Main Street is about connection… the kind I found again right outside my own door. It’s about telling stories that make people feel a place, not just see it. It’s about my children’s series, Roger’s Road Trip, and how those stories echo the same message: that towns and people come alive through connection.

It’s about sharing my photography, my travels, and yes, even opening my home again, hosting game nights, filling the piano room with music, returning to church, and remembering how good it feels to be part of something bigger than myself.

From The Bungalow Diaries

And that’s where I’ll pick up next week… with how Destination Main Street is evolving right alongside me. Because as much as this journey is personal, it’s also about the stories we tell, the towns we treasure, and the ways we still find our way back to one another. This reflection is part of my ongoing journey in The Bungalow Diaries, where life at home and life on the road meet somewhere in the middle. It’s where I share stories about finding balance, beauty, and belonging in the everyday.

If this piece resonates with you, step outside today. Wave to a neighbor. Ask how they’ve been. Because sometimes, the simplest gestures are what keep the whole world from becoming a Universe 25.

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Hi, I’m Marjorie.

I’m a photographer, writer, and lifelong collector of stories — the kind you find tucked inside small towns, old buildings, and the things we choose to keep. I love uncovering the stories, nostalgia, and beauty hidden along back roads and Main Streets.

Through Destination Main Street and The Bungalow Diaries, I share the beauty of nostalgia, the joy of travel, and the art of noticing what’s worth preserving.

I’m so glad you stopped by. I hope you’ll linger a while, explore a few more stories, and find a little inspiration to slow down and remember what matters most.