They say, “Tell me who your friends are and I’ll tell you who you are.”
But I think you can tell even more about a person by looking at their home.
Or their clothes.
Or how they drink their coffee.
Or how often they use laughing emojis.
(For example, as unbiased as I’m trying to be, I can never be friends with someone who doesn’t like cats.
I’m kidding.
...Or am I?)
Today I’ll let you peek into my little world.
Not because I think my house is particularly beautiful, but because I’ve realized it’s become a quiet portrait of who I am.
I’m renting this house, which probably says something already. It’s temporary, and honestly, I don’t even like it that much. But I still plant flowers outside every spring.
Maybe that’s because I can’t help trying to leave every place a little prettier than I found it, even if I know I’ll eventually leave.
My windows are another story.
I don’t clean them nearly as often as I probably should.
They’re the part of the house everyone else can see — and judge.
But I care much more about what it feels like to live inside than what it looks like from the street.
So the windows stay dusty while the shelves get wiped down.
Inside matters more than outside.
There’s a clock on the wall shaped like the map of my hometown.
Apparently, roots are portable.
There are dozens of Polaroids of my husband and me, my cat, and the people I love.
They’re everywhere.
Because if I have to choose what fills my walls, I’d rather it be memories than decoration.
The house itself is mostly clean.
Minimalist.
Not particularly cluttered.
Partly because I trained my husband.
Partly because we don’t have children.
My mess is my responsibility.
I also don’t like many things sitting on tables, shelves, or bedside cabinets.
Everything has its place.
Maybe that’s because I grew up with maximalist parents.
Maybe it’s a coping mechanism.
Maybe it’s some disorder.
Feel free to diagnose me in the comments.😁
But then there are the contradictions.
There are blankets everywhere.
Too many cushions.
Candles in every room.
Apparently I need physical comfort almost as much as emotional comfort.
Touch has always been my love language.
My cat’s toys are scattered across every room.
I don’t consider them mess.
I consider them evidence that somebody very spoiled lives here.
During the day, my house is filled with sunlight.
Every curtain is open.
Every ray is invited inside.
By evening everything changes.
The fairy lights come on.
The lamps stay dim.
The house becomes quiet.
And while writing this, I realized something.
It’s not just what my home has.
It’s what it no longer has.
There isn’t any music anymore.
There used to be playlists for everything.
One for yoga.
One for cleaning.
One for cooking.
One for dancing around the kitchen.
One that simply filled the silence while I went about my day.
Now I almost always wear headphones.
Or I do everything in silence.
I don’t remember making that decision.
One day I simply noticed that the speakers had gone quiet.
Maybe after years of living through air raid sirens, explosions, and constant alerts, my brain decided it had heard enough.
Now even pleasant noise feels like work.
Even my phone has been on silent for years.
No ringtone.
No notification sounds.
Nothing asking for my attention unless I choose to give it.
And then I realized something else.
I don’t actually know what my home smells like.
Some homes smell like freshly baked cookies.
Some smell like medicine.
Some smell like fabric softener.
Or coffee.
Or vanilla.
You notice it before you notice the furniture.
Before you see whether the floors are clean.
Before anyone even says hello.
One breath, and somehow your brain has already decided whether this place feels welcoming or unfamiliar.
I don’t know what someone would smell if they walked into my house today.
Maybe candles.
Maybe cat.
Maybe nothing at all.
Maybe that’s something I should pay more attention to.
Maybe our homes tell stories we don’t even realize we’re writing.
So now I’m curious.
If a stranger walked into your home without ever meeting you, what would they learn about you?
What would be the first clue?
A smell?
A sound?
A favorite object?
Or maybe... the thing that’s quietly disappeared over the years?
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