My clients tend to call with a few very concrete reasons.

They’re moving and need help on both ends of that.
They’re renovating a kitchen and want a guide (wise).
Or they call to tell me they’re renovating their bathroom… themselves.

This last one is usually delivered with a certain confidence. There’s a Pinterest board. There’s a contractor. One half of the couple is particularly enthusiastic and ready to take this on.

“What do you think?”

I always give them a few pitfalls to watch out for. A gentle nudge here, a quiet warning there. And then, inevitably, I say something along the lines of:

“Go with God… and call me if you get stuck.”

They always call.

(A small nod here to designers everywhere, our tolerance for pain, our patience, and our enduring love of “the fix.” But I digress.)

The more interesting calls, though, are the ones that come without a defined project.

“I think I just want a change.”

For those, I always ask a slightly different question.

“What brought this on?”

It’s a harder question than “what do you want to update?”, but it tells me everything I actually need to know.

Sometimes it’s seasonal. That late summer moment when people start thinking about fall, about the holidays, about gathering and nesting again.

Sometimes it’s life. Kids leaving for college. A relationship beginning or ending. A parent passing away. The quiet need to shift something, to make room, to mark a new chapter.

And sometimes, it’s something less tangible.

A need to feel better at home. Safer. More grounded. A little more like yourself again.

Three months ago, I got a call like that.

My longtime client, let’s call her Sarah, reached out and said she wanted a refresh. Nothing major. Just some ideas.

I asked the question.

There was a pause. A bit of conversation about work, her neighbors’ new house… and then, almost unbidden, she said:

“I think I’m just feeling overwhelmed by the world right now. I want a little brightness at home.”

It caught me off guard. Not because I haven’t heard it before, I have, more and more lately, and not because I don’t feel it myself. I do.

In fact, if I’m being honest, I’ve been quietly tweaking my own home in much the same way.

She went on.

“I just want to feel safe. Comfortable. Maybe even a little hopeful in my space.”

That’s a big thought to sit next to something like “I think I need a new duvet cover.”

And then, almost as an afterthought:

“I want to make choices that feel lasting.”

I hung up the phone and sat with that for a while.

Because that’s not really about design.

But also, it is.

When we met, we didn’t start with a full overhaul. We started where people actually live in the most personal way: the bedroom, the bathroom, and, if you’re lucky, the walk-in closet.

Not the spaces for guests.
The spaces that hold your everyday life.

The Bedroom

We made a few changes, but they were intentional and, more importantly, good choices.

We went all in on the bed.

A new duvet and shams from Pratesi, iconic, beautifully made, a little indulgent in the best possible way. Crisp white with a subtle green detail and just enough scallop to feel special without trying too hard. Plush towels to match. Clean, fresh, quietly luxurious.

She decided, somewhat bravely, to go for a new upholstered bed as well. A fantastic shade of green velvet. It’s rich, it’s soft, and it genuinely feels like a cocoon.

We added sconces on either side of the bed, which immediately grounded the space and gave it that layered, intentional lighting you don’t realize you’re missing until it’s there.

Because we created a new dressing room (more on that in a moment), her dressing table moved out of the bedroom. In its place, we brought in a leather chair and ottoman from her living room, something she already owned and loved, and suddenly she had a reading nook.

No new purchase required. Just a better idea.

Her existing curtains, rug, and casegoods were already strong. Quality pieces that didn’t need replacing. Good design is not about starting over. It’s about editing well.

We added a ceramic vase to her dresser, and now she picks up fresh flowers on her weekly grocery run. A small ritual, but one that changes the room every single week.

We cleared the surfaces. Books went onto the bedside shelves. Night cream and eye masks tucked into drawers instead of living their lives on display.

It’s amazing what happens when a room is both clean and cozy.

That room belongs to her now in a completely different way.

The Closet (or, The Unexpected Star)

What used to be a small, underused sewing room is now a walk-in closet, and I won’t pretend this wasn’t the most fun part.

The walls are the most serene matte beige from Farrow & Ball. Quiet, grounding, and exactly right for a room with no windows. We leaned into that, adding a vintage bronze ceiling light that somehow feels both grounded and a little bit special all at once.

A wall-to-wall custom wool rug, courtesy of Ernesta, underfoot in that way that makes you slow down without even realizing it.

Her clothing, shoes, handbags, sunglasses, everything now has a place. Shelves, racks, drawers. Organized, visible, easy.

“Like a movie star,” she said. And she wasn’t wrong.

We installed a backlit, full-length smart mirror, one of those pieces that feels like a toy until you realize how practical it actually is. Different lighting settings, a true sense of how things look in the real world.

Her dressing table found a new home here as well. On it, a silver tray from her grandmother’s collection now holds her perfumes, one of those details that quietly elevates everything around it.

A pair of bronze-based candlestick lamps adds warmth, and the mix of metals keeps it from feeling too perfect.

There’s now a rhythm to the room.

She pads down the hall in the morning, coffee in hand, and steps into this soft, quiet space to choose what she’ll wear. Outfits get hung on a vintage bronze hook for a final look. Last night’s clothes fall easily into a fabulous antique French wicker basket that now serves as her hamper.

It’s not just a closet. It’s a moment.

The Bathroom

The bathroom sits just off the bedroom, and we resisted the urge to do anything drastic.

Instead, we gave it what I can only describe as a spa day.

A fresh coat of high-gloss paint in a beautiful green. Yes, we committed to the color, and it paid off.. The light bounces differently. The room feels like a place to enjoy, not just a place to clean up.

New towels and a new bathmat (not groundbreaking, but quickly transformative).

We added a lacquer tray and containers to corral the everyday essentials, makeup, creams, the things that tend to drift and take over a space.

A small terry cloth-covered chair. Perfectly practical, quietly charming. It helps the bathroom feel like a room, not just a facility.

And a large ficus tree, because a little more greenery is always a good idea!

Everything else stayed the same.

Which is the point.

She’s also considering, a few months down the road, when her bank account recovers, swapping out the hardware and faucets in the shower and vanity. Her tile is timeless, as is her vanity, but changing the hardware can shift the feel of the room more than people expect. Done well, it’s a manageable update that makes a noticeable difference.

The Real Result

When we finished, nothing about the house had dramatically changed.

And, a few meaningful things had.

It felt lighter. Calmer. More grounded. More hers.

Not because we chased something new, but because we made thoughtful, lasting choices in the places that matter most.

A Final Thought

People think they’re calling a designer because they want to change how their home looks.

Sometimes that’s true.

But more often, they’re asking for something else.

A sense of control.
A place to land.
A little softness in a world that feels anything but.

And sometimes, yes, it starts with a duvet cover.

But it’s never really about the duvet cover.

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Spring cleaning, kitchen purges, outdoor rooms, and a grandbaby who’s about to change everything

This piece is part of a conversation with writer Trinity Ibrena. We both sat with the same word, nesting, and wrote from our own lives. Hers is a beautiful read and a very different one from mine.

Read Trinity’s piece here → Link here 👈

My daughter is not a nester.

She will tell you this herself. She will say it clearly and with conviction, the way she says most things, and she will believe it completely.

She will also say it while standing in a kitchen full of labeled freezer containers, meals she batch-cooked and organized for the sleepless weeks ahead. She will say it while folding impossibly small onesies that have already been washed, dried, and sorted by size. She will say it while rearranging the nursery shelves for the third time in a week, in a room she designed with such careful intention that it works beautifully without knowing whether the baby is a boy or a girl.

(They decided to be surprised. Positively old school. Charming and also mildly inconvenient for those of us who like to shop with specifics.)

She is, for the record, absolutely nesting. She’s just doing it her way, which I suppose is exactly how it should be done.

Watching her has stirred something in me. Not the urge to fold tiny things (although, give me time), but a recognition that nesting isn’t just a pregnancy thing. It’s seasonal. It’s primal, almost. And apparently it’s contagious, because I seem to have caught it.

The Annual Sweep

Every spring, something shifts.

It’s not dramatic. I don’t wake up one morning and decide to overhaul my life. (I have done that, more than once, and I have the moving boxes to prove it. But that’s not what this is.) This is more like a low hum that starts in late February and gets louder by March. A restlessness that has a specific cure: open the windows. Let the air move. Sweep out whatever winter left behind, both the dust and the things that aren’t dust but feel like it.

This year, the kitchen became the project.

I don’t know when I became someone who owns this many appliances. I’m standing in front of a cabinet full of things I can’t fully account for. A mandoline I’ve used twice, both times nervously. A set of ramekins, I’m sure, had a purpose at some point. Candlesticks and flower vases that have somehow survived three moves in five years without ever once being used, which is either impressive loyalty or a sign that I need to pay closer attention to what goes in the boxes.

There’s a moment in a kitchen purge where you stop asking “when did I last use this” and start asking “would I buy this today?” And the answer, for about half of what I’m holding, is a very peaceful no.

I’m keeping the things I reach for. The Dutch oven that has earned its shelf space many times over. The wine glasses Mabel and I actually use when we’re cooking together on a Friday night. The good knives. The platter that only comes out for Thanksgiving but earns its keep every single time.

Everything else is going to the thrift store. Not with guilt. With relief.

There’s something about a clean kitchen, really clean, only-what-you-love clean, that makes the whole house feel lighter. And yes, I know that sentence is doing double duty, and yes, that’s an article for another day.

What I See Every Spring

I’m an interior designer when I am not being a writer, and every year around this time, I watch the same thing happen with my clients. The weather shifts, and suddenly everyone wants their house to feel different. Not necessarily new. Just... lighter. More awake. More like them.

And most of the time, the answer isn’t a renovation.

It’s a Saturday morning with three bags of donations and the deep satisfaction of a back seat full of things that are no longer your problem and might just become someone else’s favorite find. It’s cleaning the windows, which sounds unglamorous until you see what clean glass does to a room. (Truly. If you haven’t washed your windows since last spring, stop reading this and go do it. I’ll wait.) It’s noticing the porch or patio they’ve been walking past all winter and realizing it’s not just outdoor space. It’s an unused room.

This is the part where I get a little bit evangelical, so bear with me.

An outdoor living room is one of the simplest, most satisfying things you can create. An outdoor rug (there are so many great ones now, and they instantly make a porch feel like a place you’re meant to stay). A real sofa or a pair of deep chairs. An outdoor fireplace or fire pit if you have the space. Plants, obviously, because nothing makes an outdoor room feel alive faster. And here’s the detail I love: outdoor cordless lamps. They exist now, they’re beautiful, they’re built for weather, and they make a porch at dusk feel like something out of a magazine you’d actually want to live in.

Here in Louisiana, people paint their porch ceilings blue like the sky and everyone has an outdoor ceiling fan going, and honestly it’s one of the most civilized things about living here. I’ll often bring vintage furniture onto a screened porch or a deep covered patio for the season, pieces I don’t mind living outside for a few months, because nothing creates that indoor-room-but-outdoors feeling faster than a real piece of furniture with some character.

You don’t need a designer for this (although I’m happy to help). You need an afternoon, some intention, and a willingness to treat your outdoor space like it matters. Because it does. Especially when the evenings get long and warm and you want somewhere to sit that isn’t the couch you’ve been sitting on since November.

Nesting isn’t always about preparing for something new. Sometimes it’s just settling into what’s already yours and deciding to actually enjoy it.

The Tiny Clothes

Now I circle back. Because I can talk about kitchens and porches all day and genuinely love both subjects, the thing that has me thinking about nesting this spring is not a room.

It’s a person. A very small one. Arriving in the next couple of weeks.

I’m about to be a grandmother for the first time.

And Mabel, who will be Abuela (she’s bilingual, and she has been waiting for this title with a patience that has officially run out), is possibly even more excited than I am. Which I didn’t think was possible. But she has proven me wrong, enthusiastically and daily.

Then there’s my son-in-law, who deserves his own paragraph because he has been doing all the things that don’t get hashtagged. Building, assembling, researching, carrying, and showing up. He’s not performing fatherhood online. He’s just getting ready, in the most real and unglamorous way, and watching him do it has been one of the loveliest parts of all of this.

We are all nesting. Every single one of us. My daughter, with her plans and her steady, no-nonsense preparation. Mabel, with her joy that has become its own gravitational force. My son-in-law, with his quiet competence. Me, standing in my kitchen with a bag of donations, making room.

Not just in the cabinets. In my life. In my schedule. In whatever part of me is about to become a grandmother, and doesn’t quite know what that looks like yet.

There is something about the size of a newborn’s sleeve that reorganizes your priorities without asking permission. It is very hard to care about a mandoline you’ve used twice when someone you haven’t met yet is about to need you in ways you can’t fully imagine.

The nursery, by the way, is perfect. She really did manage to make it feel warm and complete and ready, all without knowing what’s coming. Which, now that I write that down, might be the most honest description of parenthood I’ve ever accidentally produced.

What Nesting Really Is

Spring cleaning. Kitchen purges. Outdoor rooms. Tiny folded onesies.

They look different, but they’re all the same impulse. The urge to clear space, to prepare, to make room for what matters. Not what mattered five years ago or what might matter next year. What matters now.

I think that’s what nesting is, at every scale and every age. The physical act of deciding that something ahead of you is worth getting ready for.

My daughter would still like the record to show that she is not a nester.

The record respectfully disagrees.

And somewhere in a nursery that doesn’t know yet whether it belongs to a boy or a girl, a little life is about to arrive into a family that has been getting ready in every possible way. Whether we call it nesting or not.

We’re ready. Or close enough. Which, from what I remember, is all anyone ever really is.

Trinity Ibrena sat with the same word and took it somewhere that caught me completely off guard. Her piece is thoughtful and nuanced and honest in a way that stayed with me long after I finished reading. I think you should read it.

Now I’d love for you to read the other side of this conversation → Link here 👈

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There’s a moment in almost every downsizing project I’ve ever worked on where the client stops, looks at me, and says some version of the same thing:

“I don’t know why this is so hard. It’s just stuff.”

It’s never just stuff.

I’ve been an interior designer for over two decades, and I stopped being surprised by tears on the job a long time ago. Not because I’m callous about it. The opposite, actually. I’ve just learned that what looks like a closet cleanout or a kitchen purge is almost always something deeper happening in real time.

People think the hard part of downsizing is the logistics. The boxes, the decisions, the Goodwill runs. And yes, that’s work. But the part that actually stops people in their tracks? The part that sends them back to the couch with the closet still open and the bags still empty?

It’s the feelings.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that nearly everyone moves through the same emotional stages when they start the process of editing their home and their life. Not in a neat, linear way. More like weather patterns. They roll in, sometimes overlap, sometimes circle back. But they’re remarkably consistent.

Knowing what they are doesn’t make them painless. But it does make them less frightening. And it makes it a lot harder to mistake a completely normal emotional response for a sign that you should stop.

Stage 1: The Surge

The Surge is the exciting part. The part that feels like possibility.

Something clicks. Maybe the last kid moved out six months ago and the silence has shifted from unsettling to clarifying. Maybe you walked through a model home or visited a friend’s beautifully edited apartment and thought that’s what I want. Maybe you’re just tired. Bone tired. Tired of maintaining rooms no one uses and closets no one opens.

Whatever triggers it, there’s a burst of energy. A conviction. I’m doing this. I’m finally doing this.

You might spend a Saturday morning pulling everything out of a guest room closet, fill three trash bags before lunch. It feels great. Productive. Overdue.

The Surge is real and it matters. It’s the momentum that gets you started. But it almost never carries you through. It gets you to the starting line. It doesn’t run the race.

I had a client, a retired professor, who called me on a Monday morning absolutely buzzing. She’d spent the entire weekend going through her home office. Books donated, files shredded, desk cleared. She was ready to tackle the rest of the house.

By Wednesday, she hadn’t touched another room.

“I opened the hall closet,” she told me, “and it was like hitting a wall.”

That wall has a name.

What to do in the Surge: Use it, but don’t trust it to last. Pick one small area you can finish in a single session and get the donations out of the house that same day. That completed space becomes your proof of concept when the motivation fades. And it will fade. The key is having a system ready for when it does.

Stage 2: The Freeze

Most people get stuck here. And honestly? Most people quit here.

The Freeze doesn’t look dramatic. It’s quiet. You open a drawer, stare at it for ten minutes, and close it again. You make a pile, second-guess the pile, put everything back. You avoid the room entirely and tell yourself you’ll get to it next weekend.

What’s actually happening is that your brain has moved from the easy decisions to the hard ones. The guest room closet was full of old coats and forgotten board games. That was simple. But now you’re standing in front of your mother’s china, or the baby blanket you knitted for your firstborn, or the set of wineglasses from a trip you took with someone who isn’t in your life anymore.

These items aren’t clutter. They’re anchors to versions of your life that mattered deeply. And your brain, which is very good at protecting you from loss, does exactly what it’s designed to do: it freezes.

I can’t tell you how many clients have described this exact sensation to me. They stand in a room full of things they logically know they don’t need, and they feel physically unable to make a decision. Not unwilling. Unable.

That’s not weakness. That’s your nervous system doing its job.

The mistake people make in the Freeze is interpreting it as failure. I can’t do this. I’m too sentimental. I’m not strong enough. None of that is true. You’ve just hit the emotional layer, and the emotional layer requires a different approach than the logistical one.

The Surge runs on adrenaline. The Freeze requires compassion. And a system.

What to do in the Freeze: Stop trying to make permanent decisions about emotionally loaded items. The Freeze happens because you’re applying Surge energy to a problem that needs a completely different approach. There are structured ways to handle the hard items without forcing yourself to decide in the moment, and without letting them stall your entire progress. That’s a big part of what I built my system around.

Stage 3: The Grief

I almost didn’t include this one because it makes people uncomfortable. But leaving it out would be dishonest, and I think it helps to know what’s coming.

At some point during the process, usually after you’ve pushed through the Freeze and started making real progress, something shifts. You’re not just letting go of objects anymore. You’re letting go of a life.

The house where your kids grew up. The kitchen where Thanksgiving happened for thirty years. The garden your spouse planted. The guest room that was always ready for your parents, even after they stopped being able to visit.

You might not be moving. You might just be simplifying, clearing out rooms that have become storage, making space for the life you’re living now instead of the one you lived ten years ago. It doesn’t matter. The grief can show up either way.

I sat with a woman once. Composed, sharp, the kind of person who ran a department of 200 people. And I watched her cry over a drawer full of birthday candles. Not special candles. Just the cheap supermarket kind, the numbered ones, the ones she’d stuck on cakes year after year for her kids. She had a whole drawer of leftover birthday candles and she couldn’t throw them away.

She wasn’t crying about candles. She was crying because her kids were grown, her marriage had ended, and that drawer was the last physical evidence of a chapter she hadn’t fully grieved.

We kept the candles that day. She wasn’t ready yet. Two months later, she let them go on her own terms, after she’d processed what they actually represented. She took a photo first. Wrote a few lines in a journal. Then she put them in the trash and told me she felt ten pounds lighter.

You can’t skip this stage. I’ve tried to help people skip it. They always circle back. The only way through it is to feel it, and to know that feeling it is what eventually makes the next stage possible.

What to do in the Grief: Give yourself permission to not be ready. The worst thing you can do in this stage is force decisions you’ll regret, and the second worst thing is stop entirely. There’s a middle path that lets you honor what you’re feeling while still making progress on the rest of the house. Finding that middle path is what separates people who finish this process from people who quit.

Stage 4: The Clarity

This is my favorite stage, and it’s the one that surprises people the most.

Somewhere between the tears and the trash bags, something opens up. The decisions get easier. Not because you care less, but because you’ve gotten honest about what actually matters to you versus what you were keeping out of obligation, guilt, or habit.

You start to notice a pattern in what you’re choosing to keep. It’s the pieces that make you feel something right now, not just the ones attached to a memory. The things that fit your actual life, not the life you thought you were supposed to be living.

This is when clients start saying things like:

“I can’t believe how much I was holding onto for no reason.”

“My house already feels different and I’m not even done yet.”

“I actually know what I want now.”

The Clarity stage has nothing to do with having less. It’s the moment you finally see what you have, and who you are, without all the noise.

I worked with a couple last year who had been in their home for 35 years. When we started, the surfaces were covered, the closets were packed, the garage was full. Not with junk. With life. Decades of it.

By the time we reached this stage, the wife turned to me in her living room (which now had open floor space for the first time in years) and said, “I forgot this room had such beautiful light.”

The light had always been there. She just couldn’t see it.

What to do in the Clarity: Capture it. When the fog lifts and you start feeling decisive, pay attention to what’s driving those decisions. There’s usually a vision forming underneath, a picture of how you actually want to live. Most people never take the time to articulate it, which is why the clarity fades and the freeze comes back. Getting that vision out of your head and onto paper is the single most important thing you can do to make the rest of the process stick.

Stage 5: The Rebuild

This is the part that’s actually fun. I know that sounds unlikely after everything I just described, but I mean it.

Once the excess is gone, you’re not standing in an empty space. You’re standing in a space that can finally breathe. There’s room to arrange what you kept with intention, to add one or two things that reflect who you are right now instead of who you were twenty years ago.

The Rebuild doesn’t necessarily mean buying new things, though sometimes that’s part of it. Mostly it means curating. Choosing what gets displayed, what gets stored, and how you want your home to feel when you walk through the front door.

My design brain lights up during the Rebuild, honestly. Because this is where all that emotional work pays off in a tangible way. The home starts to match the person. Things have room to shine. Rooms have purpose again.

It doesn’t have to be expensive. I’ve seen a single well-placed lamp, a fresh set of linen curtains, and three items arranged on a shelf transform a room that felt heavy into one that felt like a deep exhale.

The Rebuild is also, and this matters, where regret disappears. In all my years of doing this work, not a single client has told me they wish they’d kept more. Every single one has said some version of: I wish I’d done this sooner.

What to do in the Rebuild: Resist the urge to fill the space back up. Live with the openness for a few weeks before you add anything new. You’ll be surprised at how quickly you start to love the breathing room. When you do add something, make it count. The goal isn’t empty. The goal is curated.

So Where Does That Leave You?

Maybe you’re in the Surge right now, riding that initial wave of motivation. Good. Start somewhere easy and let it build.

Maybe you’re frozen. That’s okay too. You’ve hit the emotional layer, and what you need is a framework, not more willpower.

Maybe you’re somewhere in the middle, bouncing between progress and grief, between clarity and confusion. That’s the most common place to be, and it doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.

Wherever you are, all of it is normal. The tears, the stalling, the standing in a room wondering why a set of birthday candles can undo a perfectly competent adult. It’s all part of the process, and the process works. If you let it.

Where to Start

If any of this felt familiar, I put together a free guide that walks through the psychology behind why we hold on to things and how to start making decisions without guilt or regret. It’s the same framework I use with clients before we ever pick up a box or open a drawer, because the inner work is what makes the outer work stick.

It’s called The No-Regret Foundation, and it’s 45 pages of the stuff I wish someone had told me (and my clients) years ago. It also introduces something I call the 50% Rule, the single most useful decision-making framework I’ve found for this process. It’s the reason my clients don’t end up regretting what they let go.

Download The No-Regret Foundation: Free

If you’re in a season of editing your home and your life, this is the place to begin. And if you recognized yourself in any of these stages, I’d love to hear which one.

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I can’t turn it off.

I’ve tried. I walk into a friend’s house for dinner, a vacation rental, an open house I have no business being at, and before I’ve even set down my bag, I’ve already read the room. Not judged it. Read it. There’s a difference.

It’s a little like how a musician hears an off note before anyone else does. After enough years in design, certain things just announce themselves.

The space that ruined me for this was a penthouse I walked into early in my career. I was there in my designer capacity, and I remember stopping just inside the door because something about it was... miraculous. That’s the only word I’ve ever found for it.

It felt calm. Lived in. It didn’t try too hard. The artwork was clearly the focus, but in the most understated way possible. Nothing screaming “look at me,” everything quietly saying “I belong here.” Every piece looked like it had been collected over time, chosen with the kind of patience most people don’t have. I couldn’t tell if the room had been designed all at once or had evolved over decades, and honestly, I didn’t care. The effect was the same.

It was one of the only spaces I’ve ever walked into and thought: there is not one thing I would change.

I quietly thanked the heavens that I was actually there to talk about revamping their lake house out in the rural woods and not the penthouse itself. Because if I’m being honest? If the job had been this space, I would have had to turn around and walk right back out without a thing to do.

I tracked down the designer’s name afterward. She wasn’t famous in an Architectural Digest sort of way, but I’m sure she was a legend among the people lucky enough to work with her. That penthouse set a standard I’ve been chasing ever since.

Over the years, I’ve realized there are a handful of things that separate spaces like that one from everything else. Designers notice them within seconds of walking through a door.

A quick aside before I get into it: I don’t walk into every home and judge what I see. I notice things, but it’s more curiosity than critique. People live all sorts of ways and I genuinely love observing how someone has made a space their own. If they ask, I’ll adjust. But I’m never standing in your living room mentally rearranging your furniture. (Okay. Almost never.)

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1. The Entry Moment

The first five seconds inside a home tell you almost everything about how the rest of it will feel.

It’s not about what’s on the walls or what the floors look like. It’s about whether the space pulls you in or holds you at the door. Light, sightlines, air. Does the room breathe, or does it feel like it’s holding its breath?

I worked with a couple a few years ago who had donated literally everything they owned and were starting from scratch in a new build. No furniture, no art, no vision yet. Just rooms. The first question I asked them wasn’t about what color goes on the walls. It was: how should that color make you feel?

We spent a lot of time talking. About their childhood homes, magazine photos they kept coming back to, what comfort meant to them. Turns out they were casual elegance people, all the way. The kind of couple who wants friends to drop by unannounced and end up staying for hours around a giant table, eating and talking. That told me everything I needed to know. Kitchen is important. Open floor plan. Warm and welcoming with easy comfort and lots of seating that’s comfortable for hours at that giant table. Soft, warm, timeless colors.

But it all started with how they wanted to feel the moment they walked through their own front door.

Designer’s Tip: Before you pick a single paint color or browse a single furniture site, choose your anchor feeling. That one vibe that will guide you through a whole house renovation or just one room. Maybe it’s “calm.” Maybe it’s “warm and lively.” Maybe it’s “cozy but sophisticated.” Whatever it is, write it down. Put it on a sticky note. Because when you’re drowning in choices (and you will be), that anchor feeling is what pulls you back to center. Every decision gets easier when you know what you’re trying to feel.

2. The Lighting

Lighting is the fastest way to tell whether a home has been thoughtfully designed or just... assembled.

That penthouse I mentioned? Part of why it felt so extraordinary was the lighting. The overhead fixtures existed to highlight the artwork, softly and deliberately. The lamps existed to draw people into conversation areas. The window treatments were understated enough to let natural light pour in during the day and the twinkle of city lights take over in the evening. Nothing competed. Everything cooperated.

Most homes don’t work this way. Most homes have one overhead light doing all the heavy lifting in every room, casting the same flat, slightly harsh glow on everything. It’s the design equivalent of fluorescent lighting in a dressing room. Technically functional, emotionally terrible.

Good lighting rarely announces itself. It just makes everything else look better.

Designer’s Tip: Splurge on a lamp. Seriously. One really good lamp can change the entire mood of a room. And here’s the fun part: there are so many cute cordless options out there now that you can put lamps in places that would have been awkward or impossible a few years ago. That dark corner, that deep bookshelf, that hallway that always felt a little gloomy. A lamp doesn’t need a plug anymore, which means it can go almost anywhere.

3. The Balance of the Room

Designers instinctively read proportion, and when it’s off, we feel it before we can name it.

I had clients once who had gorgeous taste. Beautiful furniture, quality pieces, everything individually lovely. But when I walked in, something felt wrong and it took me a moment to figure out what. Every single piece was lined up against the walls. The sofa against one wall, chairs against another, the console table pressed flat against a third. It felt a lot like a furniture showroom. Everything was beautiful but nothing was having a conversation.

The room was technically a living room, but it was functioning as a pass-through space. People walked straight through it to get where they were going because there was nothing inviting them to stop, sit, stay.

It took some convincing. Most people think furniture belongs against walls. It feels tidy, it feels logical, it opens up the floor. But people can walk around furniture if the pathway is inviting. Your living room is not a hallway. It’s meant for sitting and socializing. Once we pulled things away from the walls, angled a couple of chairs, and created actual conversation areas, the whole room changed. Same furniture. Completely different feeling.

Designer’s Tip: Area rugs are one of my favorite tricks for this. Using rugs to delineate different zones within a large space makes a room feel inviting and warm while adding visual interest. A rug under your conversation area, a different one anchoring a reading nook. Suddenly one big room has purpose and personality instead of just square footage.

4. Personality vs. Perfection

The most memorable homes I’ve ever been in rarely look perfect. They look lived in.

I think about two clients in particular. One was a young couple with four kids and an amazing house, but they were ready for the next chapter. The toddler era was over and the house hadn’t caught up yet. We’re talking a giant formula-stained brown sectional and rows of cubbies overflowing with toy baskets. But the play dates were done. Now it was pre-teen and teenager hangouts, and those kids needed spaces that still felt like part of the family and the house, not leftover toddler zones they’d outgrown. The parents didn’t want to erase the family from the room. They wanted a space everyone could enjoy, something easy to maintain but more sophisticated, with real comfort baked in. The personality was already there. It just needed to grow up a little.

The other was a blended household. Two people coming together later in life, merging two homes’ worth of belongings, memories, and taste. This is one of my favorite situations to walk into. We went through everything together. What stays, what goes, what they choose new, together. We mixed cherished vintage and antique pieces with a few things they picked out as a couple. We updated the wall colors. We ripped out the kitchen and made it a his-and-hers dream. The result was a home that told the story of two lives becoming one, and it had more character than any showroom could ever manufacture.

Personality beats perfection every time.

Designer’s Tip: Don’t erase the past. Choose your cherished pieces and let them evolve with your home. Place them carefully and with intention so they enhance what’s new instead of competing with it. A home with history woven into it will always feel richer than one that started from a catalog.

5. How the Room Makes You Feel

This is the one that matters most, and it’s the hardest to explain.

I keep coming back to that penthouse. Of course, a space like that had every reason to feel intimidating. Beautiful artwork, carefully collected pieces, the kind of home that could easily beg you not to sit down or touch anything. But it didn’t. It invited you in. That’s what made it special.

I didn’t walk in and think “the scale of the sofa is perfect” or “the art placement is genius.” I didn’t analyze anything. I just felt calm. Completely, immediately at ease.

Designer’s Tip: If you have special things, don’t be afraid to display them. Use them. But make sure the environment invites people to interact with the space, not tiptoe through it. Your beautiful objects should feel like part of the scenery, part of your life. Not like a museum exhibit or a magazine cover shot waiting to be disturbed.

That’s what great design does. It’s emotional before it’s visual. When all five of these things are working... the entry draws you in, the lighting wraps around you, the proportions feel right, the personality is real, and nothing is trying too hard... you don’t notice any of them individually. You just feel good. You breathe a little easier. You want to sit down and stay awhile.

A Little Free Advice From Someone Who’s Been Inside a Lot of Houses

Stop being afraid of your home. I mean that. So many people live in their spaces like they’re waiting for permission to enjoy them. Afraid to get it wrong, afraid it won’t impress, afraid to mix the vintage lamp with the modern sofa.

The homes that feel the best are never the ones trying to be perfect. Perfect isn’t fun to live in. Calm is. Inviting is. Personal is.

Mix and match, but keep it intentional. Use all of your space, not just the rooms that face the front door. Let your rooms breathe. Create conversation areas, a small reading corner, a workspace that actually works for your life. Furniture doesn’t need to line the walls and every room doesn’t need to serve just one purpose.

And yes, it’s always fun when someone walks in and loves your vibe. But the person who needs to love it most is you.

If all of that feels like a tall order? That’s okay too. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t knowing what you want, it’s knowing where to start. That’s literally what designers are for. You don’t have to do this alone, and honestly, even a single consultation with someone who speaks this language can save you years of living in a space that doesn’t feel like yours.

Next week I’m going to talk about how to find the right designer for you, and how to use what’s trending without letting your home become a victim of it. Because there’s a big difference between current and trendy, and your home deserves to be timeless.

The funny thing about design is that when it’s done well, it disappears. You don’t walk into a beautiful home and catalog what’s working. You just feel something shift.

That penthouse taught me early on that the best rooms don’t perform. They welcome. After three decades, that’s still the standard, and honestly, it’s still the goal every single time I walk into a new project.

The rooms that stay with you aren’t the ones that impressed you. They’re the ones that made you feel at home.

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When Sarah and Tom called me about their kitchen renovation, they started with an apology.

“We know we’ve waited too long.”

That is never true, but people always start there.

Their kitchen was from 1984. Almond appliances, oak cabinets, laminate counters. It had raised three kids (one of whom is actually now a chef), hosted holidays for decades, and survived the chaos of teenage life. It wasn’t broken. It just didn’t fit them anymore.

The rest of their house had evolved. Calm, intentional, comfortable. The kitchen still felt like 1984—and not in a charming way.

They wanted what most people want: an island where friends could gather while they cooked. Counter space that could actually breathe. Storage that made sense. A kitchen that felt like part of the house instead of a time capsule.

I told them we’d get there. But first, I needed them to do something uncomfortable.

Empty every cabinet. Put everything on the dining room table. Look at it all at once.

“Everything?” Sarah asked.

Everything.

The dining room table moment

It took them a weekend.

Saturday was the great emptying. Sunday morning, I got the texts:

“Is this normal?” (Photo: thirty plastic containers, most missing lids.)

“We found FOUR cheese graters.”

“I don’t even remember buying this.” (Photo: a fondue pot, still in the box.)

This is what happens when you live with a kitchen for 40 years. Things accumulate. Gifts you felt obligated to keep. Gadgets from aspirational phases. Duplicates bought because you couldn’t find the original. Wedding registry items that never stood a chance.

When everything is tucked away in cabinets, it’s easy to ignore. But when you see 47 coffee mugs, 12 spatulas, and 8 cutting boards all at once, reality hits.

I asked them to sort everything into three categories:

Love and use daily. The things they reached for first. The items that fit how they actually cook.

Like, but rarely use. Nice to have, but not essential. Good condition, but not their first choice.

Keeping for the wrong reasons. Doesn’t fit their current life. Kept because it was expensive or a gift. Broken, stained, or forgotten. Representing who they used to be, not who they are.

The sorting took another weekend. And it was harder than they expected.

The fondue pot

“I cried over the fondue pot,” Sarah told me later.

It had been a Christmas gift from her grandmother, and her memory finally kicked in on where it had come from. They used it once—maybe 1985?—and put it back in the box for safekeeping. Forty years later, there it was. Still in the box.

Letting it go felt like letting go of her.

This is the part no one tells you about kitchen renovations. It’s not just about cabinets and countertops. It’s about confronting past versions of yourself. The person who thought they’d make homemade pasta every week. The person who received gifts with good intentions. The person who kept things just in case.

I remember walking into a client’s (we’ll call her Judy) kitchen several years ago for what should have been a routine Monday meeting. Judy was downsizing from the home where she’d raised her kids, entertained friends, and where her mother had lived before she passed away. Beautiful architecture, inviting rooms, and an amazing collection of antiques and artwork. We’d started in the kitchen because it seemed like the most technical spot—the least emotional place to begin.

Judy spent the weekend emptying the cupboards as I’d asked.

When I arrived, she was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by stacks of beautiful dishes, tears streaming down her face.

I paused. Collected my thoughts. Sat down next to her.

She told me she was overwhelmed. Not just by the memories, but by the thought of letting her collections go. Her kids weren’t interested in her “old” things, she said. They wanted Pottery Barn, not Herend.

I was sad too, if I’m honest. Not because there’s anything wrong with Pottery Barn, but because certain old-world pieces just aren’t available anymore. Or if they are, the price tags make them unattainable for years. I knew her kids might regret that choice someday.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was helping her move forward.

We sat together and created a plan. Just because she was moving, she wasn’t going to stop entertaining just because she was downsizing. That was her lifestyle, and it wouldn’t change. So she would need (and should absolutely keep) some of those beautiful dishes, some of the serving pieces.

We looked at which sets she actually reached for and loved versus which sets were her mother’s, beautiful, meaningful, but heavy with memories that felt impossible to carry.

We photographed everything. Sent the photos to family one more time. From there, we decided what to sell and what to donate.

One set ended up in a museum. Fabulous! Now everyone could enjoy it.

Other sets were sold to collectors who would actually use and love them. When faced with losing the option forever, her kids each decided to take a set. I’m sure they set the table with them every time their mom comes over.

The overwhelm was real. The solution needed a soft but methodical touch.

The purgatory shelf

Here’s where I break my own rules.

If someone is truly struggling to let go of a few things—not everything, just a few emotionally complicated items—I allow a small compromise.

I call it purgatory.

One shelf in the attic or basement. Not in the kitchen. Somewhere out of the way.

Items can sit there for twelve to eighteen months. No exceptions. No extensions.

If something comes off that shelf repeatedly and earns its way back into real life, it stays. If it doesn’t, it gets donated to someone who will actually use it.

Most things quietly fail this test.

Sarah put the fondue pot in purgatory. Six months later, she donated it to a young couple who was genuinely excited to use it. She took a photo first. Wrote down the memory. Let it go.

“The memory lives on,” she told me. “The pot gets a second life. And we get cabinet space for things we’ll actually use.”

What they discovered

By the time Sarah and Tom finished decluttering, they’d reduced what they owned by 40%.

They also realized something that changed the entire project: they didn’t need the massive floor-to-ceiling pantry cabinet they’d been planning.

Original plan: $4,200

What they actually needed: A standard pantry with pullout shelves and a few specialized inserts for what they really used.

Cost: $1,200

Savings: $3,000

But the real savings wasn’t financial. It was mental.

“I didn’t realize how much energy the kitchen was taking,” Sarah said. “Once the clutter was gone, everything felt easier.”

That’s what clarity does. It can also free up some $$ for fun new inserts, an arched glass cabinet or an increase in the countertop or lighting budget. 😉

The weekend challenge

If you’re thinking about renovating, or even if you’re just tired of how your kitchen feels, try what Sarah and Tom did, but start small - you dont have to tackle the entire kitchen yet, dip your toe in and see how it feels:

Saturday: Empty one category. Not everything. Just pick one. Mugs. Utensil drawers. The pantry. Pots and pans. Put it all on the table or counter. Don’t make decisions yet. Just look.

Sunday: Sort honestly. Love and use daily. Like, but rarely use. Keeping for the wrong reasons. See what patterns emerge.

You’re not committing to anything. You’re just paying attention.

That awareness is what good design depends on.

If you’re feeling stuck

The sorting is where it gets emotional. That’s normal. Kitchens hold more than dishes. They hold past versions of ourselves, good intentions, gifts from people we love, and a lot of “someday.”

If you find yourself stuck between categories, feeling guilty about expensive mistakes, or realizing your kitchen is holding onto who you used to be instead of who you are now, you’re in the right place. That’s the real work.

I created a guide that walks through the emotional side of decluttering and downsizing. The part that makes people cry over fondue pots and Herend china. It’s the same framework I use with clients before we ever talk about cabinet styles. The psychology of why we keep things, how to make decisions without guilt, and how to create a kitchen that supports your actual life.

THE NO REGRET FOUNDATION - Your Free Guide To The Psychology Downsizing $ Decluttering👆

Where dream kitchens actually start

Sarah and Tom’s renovation took 18 weeks from demolition to completion. But the transformation really began that weekend when they emptied their cabinets and got honest about who they were and how they wanted to live.

The most beautiful kitchens aren’t about what you add.

They’re about what you choose to keep.

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But from where I sit, as an interior designer who has spent years helping people transition homes and lives, this urge to declutter isn’t about calendars or trends. It’s about timing. And life stage. And a quiet, persistent desire for things to feel easier.

What I’m asked to do most often these days isn’t pick paint colors or source furniture. It’s help people let go. Sometimes of square footage. Sometimes of houses where families were raised. Often of spaces that once fit perfectly and now feel like more than they want or need to manage. The moves themselves vary, smaller homes, often yes, but also lower-maintenance ones. Homes closer to the city, closer to water, closer to culture, closer to the lives people want to live now. Places that support travel, hobbies, relationships, and freedom instead of endless upkeep.

And yet - and this matters - decluttering has never meant living without beauty. In fact, it’s often the opposite. Once the excess is edited away, there’s room for a few well-chosen pieces to shine. A fresh, on-trend paint color that changes how the light moves through a room. A soft, inviting chair you actually want to sit in. A cherished antique that carries a story forward. In the spirit of style icon Audrey Hepburn’s famous line, that Paris is always a good idea, a thoughtfully chosen piece is almost always a good idea too. My job, after all, isn’t just to simplify; it’s to make spaces feel beautiful, intentional, and alive.

What’s striking is that these decisions are rarely driven by loss. They’re driven by clarity.

There’s a moment, and if you’re here, you may recognize it, when beauty becomes less about accumulation and more about calm. A thoughtfully designed physical space often brings a sense of mental clarity that stops feeling like a luxury and becomes essential, quietly supporting your nervous system and energy rather than competing.

Even when the outcome is beautiful, decluttering can feel surprisingly emotional. Not in a dramatic way. In a subtler, disorienting one. Because letting go of space often means letting go of identities you didn’t realize were tied to it. Roles. Routines. Versions of yourself that made sense once and now feel slightly out of step with the life you’re actually living.

What looks like a simple design choice on paper is often the beginning of a much larger internal shift.

And that’s where this conversation really starts.

The Surprise of Identity Lag

What most people don’t anticipate when they downsize or declutter is how long it takes for their sense of self to catch up.

Logistically, the move is complete. The boxes are unpacked. The space is beautiful. On paper, everything makes sense. Still, there’s often a strange, quiet disorientation that lingers. A sense that something familiar is missing, even if what’s missing is something you no longer wanted or needed.

I’ve come to think of this as identity lag.

For years, sometimes decades, our homes quietly reinforce who we are. The rooms we move through reflect roles we’ve held: parent, host, caretaker, provider, organizer of holidays and milestones and everyday life. When those rooms fall away, even by choice, there can be a moment where the inner narrative hasn’t quite caught up with the new reality.

This isn’t failure. It’s not regret. It’s transition.

And it’s why decluttering, even when it leads to something lighter and more beautiful, can still feel oddly emotional. You’re not just editing objects. You’re editing identities.

The Part No One Warns You About

This is the part that rarely makes it into glossy articles or cheerful before-and-after photos.

The physical purge is often the easiest stage, although deciding what items to pitch, donate, or keep can feel difficult and stressful in the moment. The mental and emotional decluttering that comes later, sometimes quietly, sometimes insistently, asking new questions, can be where the real struggle begins. What do I do with this extra space in my days? Who am I when fewer people depend on me? What do I want to say yes to now?

I see this with clients all the time. Once the move is complete, once the excess is gone, there’s a pause. A stillness. Sometimes relief. Sometimes restlessness. Often both.

This is where people realize that decluttering is not just about removing what no longer fits; maybe it’s more about learning how to inhabit what does.

When the House Is Orderly, but the Brain Is Not

For a long time, my own spaces have been fairly tidy. That’s simply how my brain learned to function. I find comfort in order, and editing physical environments has always felt intuitive. Cleaning out a closet? Rearranging a living room? A pleasure, honestly.

What surprised me was discovering that mental clutter doesn’t automatically resolve just because the physical space is calm.

At some point, especially as health, family roles, and work evolve, the clutter shifts location. It moves inward. Ideas accumulate. Projects overlap. Interests expand. Curiosity multiplies. And suddenly, you’re no longer managing rooms and schedules, you’re managing possibilities.

It turns out you can have a beautifully edited home and still have forty-seven tabs open in your head.

From Manager to Advisor (and Other Quiet Role Changes)

As my kids grew into adults, another subtle decluttering began. I’ve described this shift as moving from a managerial role into something closer to an advisory one, more board of directors than day-to-day operations. I still care deeply. I still show up. But I’m no longer running every meeting.

What’s interesting is that this transition doesn’t arrive with emptiness, it arrives with possibility.

Despite outdated stereotypes, being over fifty, sixty, or seventy doesn’t automatically mean winding down. For many of us, it means asking a different question: what’s next? We have knowledge now. Pattern recognition. Experience. A deeper understanding of what matters and what doesn’t. And often, more energy than we were promised we’d have at this stage of life.

The idea of “golden years” has shifted dramatically. Sixty really is starting to look a lot like forty, but with better boundaries and far less patience for things that don’t align. The work doesn’t necessarily stop, it evolves. It becomes more intentional, more creative, and in many cases, more self-directed.

At the same time, work has a way of expanding to fill newly available space. Creative projects grow. Businesses materialize or evolve. Ideas arrive, sometimes uninvited, often irresistible.

If you’re multi-passionate, and I certainly am, this can be exhilarating and dangerous in equal measure. I thrive when there are lots of plates spinning. I also know that without structure, nothing actually lands.

Loving many things isn’t the problem. Finishing nothing is.

Decluttering the Brain: Elastic Thinking, Not Automation

This is where I’ve come to rely heavily on tools, especially AI, not as replacements for thinking, but as ways to keep thinking elastic.

One of the most interesting gifts of this stage of life is that learning doesn’t stop, it accelerates. New technologies, new platforms, and new ways of working require us to stay mentally flexible. For many of us, AI has become part of that process. Not because it tells us what to think, but because it exposes us to more angles, more observations, and more possible approaches than we might surface on our own in a single sitting.

Of course, that perspective still needs discernment. I’ve had moments where AI offered a list of perfectly reasonable suggestions, followed by one so strange it stopped me in my tracks, like adding cumin to flan. A good reminder that curiosity is helpful, but judgment is still firmly our job.

Despite the anxiety some people feel around artificial intelligence, I’ve found the opposite to be true. It doesn’t flatten thought, it expands it.

AI doesn’t feel. It doesn’t intuit meaning. It doesn’t make judgment calls. That responsibility remains firmly human, and always should. What these tools do offer is perspective. They help hold complexity, organize ideas, reflect patterns, and surface viewpoints we might not have considered yet.

Humanity still has to come from us.

Used thoughtfully, AI becomes a mirror and a container. It allows us to externalize mental clutter so insight can emerge, not because the machine knows better, but because it gives us room to decide.

Buckets, Not Piles

One of the most helpful shifts I’ve made is learning to think in buckets rather than piles.

In my mind, piles compete with each other, buckets coexist. Piles compete because everything in them feels equally unfinished; buckets coexist because they give ideas and responsibilities a place to wait their turn.

Some of my current buckets look like this:

• Active work projects

• Creative exploration and writing

• Revenue-generating work

• Family and relationships

• Travel and adventure

• Hobbies and play

• Learning and research

• Health and well-being

• Administrative maintenance

• Someday / maybe ideas

Not everything gets equal attention at the same time, and that’s the point. Buckets prevent everything from shouting at once. They allow seasons of focus without guilt and ensure that joy, curiosity, and travel don’t get edited out in the name of productivity.

Just as rooms in a home have purpose, mental space works best when it does too.

Cleaning the House Before the Organizer Arrives

As my creative and business life expanded, I realized I needed help, particularly on the administrative side. I already work with a wonderful VA who keeps social media and systems flowing, and that support has been invaluable. I’m now actively looking for additional help to manage files, manuscripts, artwork, and the general sprawl that comes with running multiple projects and businesses.

Before handing anything off, though, I found myself doing what so many people do before an organizer shows up: cleaning the house first.

On a practical level, that’s meant using tools already built into my computer, Automator and Shortcuts on a Mac, to begin sorting files. I’ve leaned on AI to help me categorize what’s worth keeping, what can be archived, what needs protection, and what can go.

You can’t delegate what you haven’t defined.

The Offline Work Still Matters

For all the tools and systems in the world, some decluttering still has to happen away from screens.

Meditation, something I never imagined would become part of my life, has quietly become non-negotiable. When I fall off the wagon, I notice immediately. When I return, there’s relief.

Taking breaks, even when I love the work, matters more than I’d like to admit. Stepping away creates clarity. Rest finishes thoughts that force never could.

I’ve also given myself permission to work in rhythms that actually suit me. Early mornings. Earlier nights. Writing at dawn. Letting go of other people’s productivity templates in favor of my own.

Whatever works… works.

Designing the Life You’re In Now

Decluttering, at this stage of life, isn’t about having less. It’s about having what fits.

It’s about editing with intention. Making space for beauty and calm. Supporting the lives we’re living now, not the ones we once planned for or feel obligated to maintain.

For many of us, this is not a winding down. It’s a reorientation. A thoughtful pause that leads to a clearer idea of what’s next.

Whether we’re talking about homes, schedules, work, or the stories we tell ourselves, this is design work at its core. Thoughtful, evolving, deeply human design.

And like any good design, it isn’t rushed. It unfolds. It adjusts. It invites us to notice what feels good, and to trust that noticing is enough to begin.

Over the years, I’ve had countless conversations with clients navigating this exact transition, the physical edit, the emotional adjustment, and the question of what comes next. I’m currently shaping those insights into a decluttering and downsizing course that I’ll be sharing later this month, for anyone who finds themselves in this season and wants a thoughtful, supportive framework to move through it.

More on that soon — and as always, I’d love to hear what this stage is stirring up for you.

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Ah, Paris! The City of Light, where baguettes are a food group, and people-watching is an Olympic sport. Sure, you could spend your days queuing for the Eiffel Tower or elbowing your way through the Louvre. But why not dive into the city's lesser-known architectural treasures? Pack your most fashionable walking shoes (this is Paris, after all) as we explore five spectacular houses that will make your Instagram followers green with envy and your history buff friends say, "Sacrebleu! How did I not know about these?"

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Maison de Verre: The House of Glass (and Stubbornness)

Address: 31 Rue Saint-Guillaume, 75007 Paris, France

Hours: By appointment only through guided tours

Imagine building your dream home around a tenant who refuses to move out. That's exactly what happened with Maison de Verre, or "House of Glass." In the late 1920s, Dr. Jean Dalsace and his wife Annie wanted to build a modern masterpiece, but there was just one tiny problem: a stubborn old lady living on the top floor of the existing building who said, "Non, merci" to their offers to relocate.

Undeterred, the Dalsaces hired architect Pierre Chareau, who said, "Challenge accepted!" and created a revolutionary design that wrapped around the tenant's apartment. The result? A stunning three-story structure with a facade made entirely of glass blocks. It's like a giant Rubik's Cube, but chicer and with better lighting.

Inside, you'll find an industrial-chic paradise that would make any steampunk enthusiast weep with joy. Exposed pipes, moving partitions, and perforated metal screens create a space that's part home, part machine. Dr. Dalsace's gynecology practice on the ground floor even featured a secret entrance for discreet patient visits. Talk about work-from-home goals!

Pro tip: Maison de Verre is privately owned, so visits are limited. Book a tour well in advance through the Cite de l'Architecture et du Patrimoine. And remember, if you see an old lady peering down from the top floor, give her a wave – her stubbornness is the reason for this architectural marvel!

Hôtel de Soubise: Where Rococo Meets Romeo

Address: 60 Rue des Francs Bourgeois, 75003 Paris, France

Hours: Monday to Friday: 9:00 AM - 5:00 PM, Saturday and Sunday: 2:00 PM - 5:00 PM

Step into the Hôtel de Soubise, and you might feel the urge to powder your wig and practice your curtsy. This 18th-century mansion is a rococo wonderland that screams, "More is more, darling!"

Built for the Prince and Princess de Soubise, this palace-like residence was the ultimate "keeping up with the Joneses" project of its time. The Prince, François de Rohan-Soubise, was known for two things: his impeccable taste in interior design and his, ahem, "active" social life. Legend has it that he had so many mistresses, he needed a palace just to keep track of them all!

The real showstopper here is the Oval Salon, a room so opulent it makes Versailles look like a minimalist loft. Golden cherubs frolic on the ceiling, pastel-hued allegorical paintings adorn the walls, and enough gilding to make Midas jealous covers every surface. It's like Marie Antoinette's cake, but in room form.

Don't miss the Prince's Apartment, where the bedroom and study are connected by a secret passageway. Was it for late-night document signing or midnight rendezvous? We'll let you decide.

Visiting tip: The Hôtel de Soubise now houses the National Archives Museum. History buffs, rejoice! You can ogle at original documents from the French Revolution while surrounded by rococo splendor. Talk about a textbook-meets-fairy tale moment!

Villa Savoye: Le Corbusier's Concrete Confection

Address: 82 Rue de Villiers, 78300 Poissy, France

Hours: Tuesday to Sunday: 10:00 AM - 6:00 PM (Closed Mondays)

Nestled in the Parisian suburbs like a geometric UFO, Villa Savoye is the pinnacle of modernist architecture. Designed by Le Corbusier in the late 1920s, this house looks like it could've been built yesterday – or possibly tomorrow.

Le Corbusier, the pioneer of modernism (and questionable eyewear choices), created Villa Savoye based on his "Five Points of Architecture." These include pilotis (supporting columns), a free facade, open floor plan, ribbon windows, and a roof garden. It's like he was playing architectural bingo and decided to tick all the boxes at once.

The villa was commissioned by the Savoye family as a country retreat. However, in a twist worthy of a sitcom, they found the house a bit... challenging to live in. Leaky roofs, drafty windows, and a heating system with a mind of its own led Madame Savoye to quip, "Les tomates du jardin sont les seules choses qui poussent ici" (The tomatoes in the garden are the only things that grow here). Ouch, Le Corbusier. Ouch.

Despite its practical shortcomings, Villa Savoye is a masterpiece of form and function. The spiral staircase looks like it's straight out of a 1960s spy movie, and the rooftop solarium will have you reaching for your yoga mat and green smoothie.

Visiting advice: Wear comfortable shoes and prepare for stairs. Also, resist the urge to slide down the curved ramp – no matter how tempting it looks!

Maison La Roche: When Art Collector Meets Architect

Address: 10 Square du Docteur Blanche, 75016 Paris, France

Hours: Monday: 1:30 PM - 6:00 PM, Tuesday to Saturday: 10:00 AM - 6:00 PM (Closed Sundays)

If Villa Savoye is Le Corbusier's magnum opus, Maison La Roche is his quirky indie film. Designed for Swiss banker and art aficionado Raoul La Roche, this house is what happens when a modernist architect and an art collector play architectural Twister.

The result is a delightful mash-up of gallery and living space. The three-story entrance hall will make you feel like you're in a Cubist painting come to life. And the color scheme? Let's just say Le Corbusier wasn't afraid of a little chromatic adventure. Think walls in salmon pink, light blue, and a particularly daring shade of mustard yellow. It's like a Mondrian painting exploded in the best possible way.

One of the coolest features is the elevated walkway that cuts through the main gallery space. It's perfect for those "I'm in a museum after hours" fantasies we all totally have, right?

Instagram alert: The curved exterior wall and ribbon windows make for a killer selfie backdrop. Just be prepared for your followers to ask, "Where IS that?" and "Can I live there?"

Visiting tip: Maison La Roche is now part of the Le Corbusier Foundation. They offer guided tours, but if you're feeling adventurous, try the self-guided option. It's like a modernist treasure hunt!

Musée Jacquemart-André: Where Love, Art, and Scandal Collide

Address: 158 Boulevard Haussmann, 75008 Paris, France

Hours: Daily: 10:00 AM - 6:00 PM (Late opening until 8:30 PM on Mondays during exhibitions)

Last but certainly not least, we have the Musée Jacquemart-André, a 19th-century mansion that's part love story, part art gallery, and all Parisian glamour.

Picture this: Édouard André, a banking heir with more money than he knew what to do with, meets Nélie Jacquemart, a talented artist hired to paint his portrait. Cue the romantic music! They fall in love, get married, and embark on a lifelong journey of art collecting and home decorating. It's like "The Bachelor" meets "Antiques Roadshow," but with better outfits.

The result of their passion is this stunning mansion, filled to the brim with Italian Renaissance masterpieces, 18th-century French furniture, and enough tapestries to carpet the Champs-Élysées. But the real pièce de résistance is the grand staircase. Legend has it that during a particularly lavish party, a guest's dress caught fire on one of the candelabras. In the ensuing chaos, someone shouted, "The staircase is on fire!" And thus, the "Staircase Affair" became the talk of Parisian society for months. Who needs reality TV when you have 19th-century gossip?

Don't miss the Winter Garden, a light-filled atrium that would make any plant parent weep with envy. And if all this art-gazing makes you peckish, the museum's café, located in the former dining room, serves a mean quiche and some seriously Instagram-worthy pastries.

Visiting advice: Go for the art, stay for the café. And keep an eye out for any suspiciously placed candelabras – you never know when history might repeat itself!

Final Thoughts:

There you have it, folks – five spectacular Parisian houses that prove there's more to this city than croissants and the Mona Lisa (though both are pretty great too). From modernist marvels to rococo extravaganzas, these hidden gems offer a unique glimpse into the architectural heart of Paris.

So the next time you find yourself in the City of Light, venture beyond the usual tourist traps. Who knows? You might discover your inner architecture buff, pick up some décor ideas for your own château (or studio apartment), or at the very least, have some great stories to share over your next glass of vin.

Remember, in Paris, every building has a story – some are just a little more spectacular than others. Now go forth and explore, mes amis! And if you happen to run into any ghosts of stubborn tenants or amorous princes, tell them I said "Bonjour!"