Someone once told me our house feels like a warm hug and I think this might be why

Here’s what I do, none of it is expensive, most of it is just permission to get comfy.

A few years ago, when we were still living in our little house in Maplewood, NJ, the one with the big crooked gap in the front door, the warped floors with water stains and paw scratchings at the back door, our friends from out of town came to visit for the weekend.

They hadn’t been to our home before, and I was feeling a little insecure about the weird layout of our living room and the giant pile of shoes and coats by the back door that I had meant to organize before their arrival.

Everyone piled inside, kicking off more shoes and coats, enveloping one another in each other’s arms, and being so excited for the weekend ahead. All the kids were still young then, probably between the ages of four and nine. The chaos was mounting, but in a joyful, happy whirlwind.

As she was pouring a glass of pinot noir, my friend turned around and said, “I love being here. Your house feels like a warm hug.”

It was the compliment I never knew I needed. Ever since that evening, my home being like a warm hug is the only aesthetic I aspire to.

Since then, the house has changed. The kids grew up. The intention didn’t.

We’ve moved states and completely renovated my husband’s childhood home in a little beach town on the North Shore of Boston. My kids are teens now, and my oldest is away at college. And still, I aspire to be the warm hug house.

It’s a series of very deliberate choices that, on the surface, might look like I just don’t care that much. That’s not it. I care a lot. I just care about something different.

Here’s everything I do, none of it is expensive, most of it is just permission to get comfy.