A Place to Exhale
I’ve always loved to entertain. Definitely not in the performative, “hostess with the mostest” kind of way. It’s never been about flawless tablescapes or impressing guests with obscure wine varietals, not that there’s anything wrong with that—I enjoy being the beneficiary of these things. Though I do love a good craft cocktail, and I’ll take credit where it’s due. Anyway, for me, entertaining has always been about something quieter. Something deeper. I want people to feel good in my space. Not just entertained, but genuinely comfortable. Safe, even.
That might sound dramatic if you’ve only ever seen hosting as an excuse for cheese boards and Spotify playlists. But for me, creating a warm environment is an emotional reflex. It’s how I show care. It’s also, I suspect, a way of offering something I didn’t always have myself, which was a space that feels undeniably, unapologetically like home.
Growing up, I didn’t always feel like I had a place that was truly mine. The safest I ever felt wasn’t in my own house—it was in the homes of my friends. Their parents were nice, mostly. Their basements were cozy. Sometimes their kitchens smelled like dinner. But mostly it was the sense of belonging I had there. So maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to hosting now. Maybe I’m trying to recreate the comfort I once found in someone else’s living room. Maybe I’m trying to build a “pad,” both for myself and for others.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve had several get-togethers. Some were planned parties, others were spontaneous drop-ins, and a few were just quiet brunches or cocktails with close friends. And at every single one of them, someone made a version of the same comment, “Your place just feels so cozy and inviting.”
It’s hard to explain how much that means to me, and how happy I felt hearing it. Because it’s not about the décor or the lighting or the music. (Though yes, if you know me, you know that I do obsess over the lighting and the music.) It’s that the thing I’ve worked hardest to cultivate, the thing I’ve quietly hoped people would feel, is being felt. That matters.
It’s made me think more broadly about what makes a space feel comforting to someone. It’s easy to toss around the word “home,” but I also know that plenty of people live in places that don’t feel like home at all. Home isn’t always where you sleep. Sometimes, it’s where you exhale. And if I’ve managed to create a space where people can do that—even briefly—then I feel like I’ve done something worthwhile.
I don’t know if there’s a precise formula for making people feel at ease. Maybe it’s in the lighting, or the seating arrangement, or the smell of a scented candle (Soho Home, I’m looking at you!). But I think, more than anything, it’s about energy. It’s about showing people they’re welcome, just as they are. No airs. No pressure. Just a soft place to land and exhale.
And if that’s all I ever manage to offer, I’ll absolutely consider it a success.
