I hide inside my house.

I hide inside my house.

Gate closed, shades drawn.

Behind the Dutch-door, I spend the vast majority of my time tinkering with my surroundings.

And not just the obvious things - shelf-styling, furniture layouts, flowers on the table.

I’m fixating on the feeling of my environment.

Eliminating clutter, making sure things smell nice, finding ways to display things that inspire me so that I can absorb little bursts of joy every time I walk down the hallway.

I’m lighting too many lamps every night at dusk. I’m spending too much on heavy, delicious throw blankets.

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Over the years, I have come to realize that filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of something baking in the oven isn’t really about the dish- it’s a way of regulating my nervous system.

Because a warm kitchen full of food and family? That’s where I feel safest.

These aren’t really homemaking habits.

They’re how I’ve learned to soothe.

I’ve never felt truly at ease walking through the world.

News is rarely good and behavior is often bad. There’s an awful lot of darkness, even in broad daylight.

If you need me, I’ll be avoiding difficult people, nurturing my family and tending to my emotional (and literal) garden.

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Does it work?

Honestly, until recently I would have said the answer was yes.

The most at peace I can feel in life is sitting at home in a clean-ish room with my family gathered together on the couch after dinner.

Warm, fed, safe, calm… together.

But lately it’s become more and more evident to me that my perfectly designed safe space has a major design flaw.

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While I can put certain structures in place to make our home a haven, there is no way to keep the outside OUTSIDE, no matter how hard I try.

It creeps in through the experiences my loved ones are having “out there” with other people.

These experiences aren’t dirty shoes I can contain to the mudroom and ask them to leave neatly at the door when they come home each night.

They carry the mess right through the back door inside their worried hearts.

It lands with a thud, heavy in the middle of this safe space I have created. Even though it’s not my chaos to clean up, I try.

I can’t pretend it’s not there, polluting the air I’m trying to purify with house plants and non-toxic scented candles.

I want to sweep it back outside where it belongs.

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I sometimes think that I could live alone in a cottage deep in the forest, completely content in my solitude.

But I know that even if I could live contained within these protective walls I’ve been busy building- I can’t ask the people I love to do the same.

Hermit living probably wouldn’t feel as good to them as it does to me.

So how do I reconcile this?

Keep dealing with the mud they’re tracking in and silently scream every time I have to wipe it off the floor again?

Distance myself from these situations- and therefore the ones I love?

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Maybe a little distance is all I need.

I retreat to my office and close the door. I sit on the porch in the early morning and savor the stillness. I prune my tomatoes and let tomorrow be tomorrow’s problem.

I breathe deeply and remember: I’m safe here.

I let go of the illusion that all these little things I’m doing in the name of creating a perfect space will ever make life perfect.

Maybe I’m not building a fortress where suffering can’t find us. Maybe I’m building a home where it doesn’t have to be carried alone.

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So I hang another family photo and make sure it’s straight and level.

I accept that while I love a calm and curated space…

I love my family more.