The Luxury Of Coming Home

I love my 1,000-square-foot apartment because it’s mine.

At this juncture in my life, there’s so much of my day I have little say in: what time I have to be at work, what time I get off, when I take my lunch break, being around people I wouldn’t necessarily choose to be around, childcare pickup, traffic, emails, calendar invites, Slack pings, KPIs, all of it.

But there’s something about coming home that just feels so right. Having a space I can call mine. A space where I determine what goes where, who gets to enter, what it smells like, whether dinner is cooked or Uber Eats. The place where my daughter will learn what comfort feels like.

I rush home after a long day like I’m late for a date with my bed.

I never really thought of coming home as a luxury until adulthood made so much of my time feel spoken for. I’m grateful for the place I’ve built and curated, and for the warmth it holds. It feels like a privilege to have this little sanctuary where I can simply be.

Maybe that’s the real luxury: not having somewhere impressive to go, but having somewhere you genuinely want to come home to.