The Spaces That Draw You Out

On the homes we create, the memories we carry, and the parts of ourselves that never really leave

There’s something about a Noah Kahan song that makes you think about places, people, and versions of yourself you haven't thought about in years.

And it got me thinking about our homes.

Not necessarily the ones we live in now, but all the ones we've lived in before.

The house you grew up in. The first apartment you could barely afford. The kitchen where everyone somehow ended up at every family gathering. The bedroom you spent your teenage years in, convinced you couldn't wait to leave.

And then, years later, you find yourself missing the strangest little details.

The sound of the screen door closing.

The way the afternoon sun came through a particular window.

The wallpaper you absolutely hated growing up but would give anything to see one more time.

It's funny how the spaces we leave behind have a way of staying with us.

A HOME IS NEVER JUST A HOUSE

As an interior designer, I spend a lot of time thinking about how people live.

Where they sit. How they move through a space. What they need to store. Whether they entertain. Whether they like a quiet morning with a coffee or a house full of people on a Friday night.

But the longer I do this, the more I realize that some of the most important things about a home have absolutely nothing to do with its floor plan.

They're the things we can't necessarily draw.

The memories.

The routines.

The feeling of belonging somewhere.

And perhaps most importantly, the way a space allows us to be ourselves. Because I think a really beautiful home does something that goes beyond looking beautiful.

It draws you out.

It makes you feel comfortable enough to exist exactly as you are.

THE THINGS WE CARRY WITH US

I think we're all a collection of the places we've been.

And whether we realize it or not, those places influence the homes we create.

Maybe you gravitate toward warm wood tones because they remind you of your grandparents' house.

Maybe you love a big dining table because you grew up in a family where dinner was never just dinner.

Maybe you want a cozy, enclosed living room because you spent your childhood in a house where everyone gathered around the fireplace.

Or maybe you want the exact opposite of what you grew up with.

Maybe your childhood home felt cluttered, chaotic, or uncomfortable, and now you crave simplicity, openness, and quiet.

That's the interesting thing about design.

Our preferences aren't always just preferences. Sometimes they're memories. Sometimes they're reactions. And sometimes they're a reflection of the life we're trying to create.

We don't always know why we're drawn to certain things.

We just know how they make us feel.

NOT EVERYTHING NEEDS TO BE NEW

One of my favourite things about working with clients is discovering the pieces they can't imagine parting with.

An old dining table.

A chair that belonged to their grandmother.

A painting they bought on a trip twenty years ago.

A cabinet that's been moved from house to house, even though it doesn't necessarily fit the aesthetic they're trying to achieve.

And I love those things.

Because those are the pieces that give a home its character.

We're constantly being shown beautifully curated interiors where everything coordinates, every surface is styled, and every piece of furniture looks like it was purchased at exactly the same time.

And while those spaces can be beautiful, I sometimes wonder what happens when we remove all the things that tell our stories.

What happens when we replace every old piece simply because it doesn't match?

What happens when we design a house around an aesthetic instead of the people who actually live there?

I don't think every sentimental piece needs to stay.

But I do think we should give ourselves permission to hold on to things that mean something.

A home should have room for your history, not just your future.

THE BEAUTY OF BECOMING

There's another part of this that I find particularly interesting.

We change.

The person you were at twenty isn't necessarily the person you are at thirty-five or fifty.

Your priorities change.

Your relationships change.

Your routines change.

The things that once felt important sometimes become irrelevant, while the things you never gave much thought to suddenly mean everything.

And our homes change with us.

Maybe the house that was perfect when your children were little feels completely different once they've moved out.

Maybe the open-concept living space you once dreamed about no longer gives you the privacy you crave.

Maybe you're finally at a point in your life where you can create a home that reflects your personality instead of simply buying what you can afford.

There's something really lovely about that.

About allowing your home to evolve alongside you.

Not because a particular design style is trending.

Not because someone on Instagram told you your kitchen is outdated.

But because you've grown into a different version of yourself.

And your home deserves to grow with you.

DESIGNING FOR THE FEELING

I think we sometimes put too much emphasis on what a home looks like and not enough on what it feels like.

We talk about finishes, furniture, lighting, cabinetry, and colour palettes.

And of course, those things matter.

They're the tools we use to create the environment.

But they're not the whole story.

Because when I ask a client how they want their home to feel, the answer is rarely a design style.

It's usually something much more personal.

Comfortable.

Welcoming.

Peaceful.

Warm.

Lived-in.

A place where their family wants to gather.

A place where they can finally relax

A place that feels like them.

And I think that's where the real design work begins.

It's about understanding what those feelings look like for that particular person.

Because warmth might mean rich colours and layered textiles to one person, while to another it means natural light, soft neutrals, and an uncluttered room.

Neither is wrong.

They're simply different expressions of what home means.

SOMEDAY, YOU'LL MISS THIS VERSION TOO

Here's the part that really gets me.

One day, the home you're living in right now might be the one you look back on.

The kitchen you're frustrated with because it needs renovating.

The living room that never seems to stay tidy.

The hallway covered in shoes.

The dining table that's seen better days.

Someday, those might be the things you remember most.

Not the countertops you wanted to replace.

Not the furniture you wished you could afford.

But the life that was happening around all of it.

The people who sat at that table.

The conversations you had in that kitchen.

The ordinary evenings that didn't feel particularly special at the time.

And I think there's something worth remembering in that.

We can want to improve our homes without wishing away the lives we're currently living in them.

We can appreciate beautiful design while recognizing that the most meaningful parts of a house are often the things that can't be purchased.

And we can create something new without erasing everything that came before it.

A HOME THAT FEELS LIKE YOU

Maybe that's what I love most about interior design. At its best, it isn't about creating a perfect house. It’s about creating a place where someone feels understood.

Where their personality has room to show up.

Where their memories are welcome.

Where their routines make sense.

Where the past and present can exist together.

And where the next chapter of their life has somewhere beautiful to unfold.

I don't want every home I design to look the same.

I don't want someone to walk into a space and immediately recognize my signature style.

I'd much rather they walk in and say, "This feels so much like you."

Because that's the whole point, isn't it?

The most beautiful homes aren't necessarily the ones that impress everyone else.

They're the ones that bring out the best parts of the people who live in them.

And maybe, years from now, when you hear a certain song or catch a familiar scent, you'll find yourself thinking about that house.

The way the light came in.

The people who filled it.

The version of yourself who lived there.

And for just a moment, you'll be home again.