My best friend, Mary, just left after a lovely visit at what she affectionately calls Casa Grace.
The sweet name she gave my home still makes me smile.
It’s funny because I’ve never thought of myself as someone who loves hosting. I don’t enjoy throwing parties or planning elaborate gatherings. Large groups can feel exhausting, and if I’m being honest, there is still a part of me that feels insecure about making meals that live up to my mom’s signature dishes.
I feel much more confident baking than cooking, so the thought of hosting a dinner party can sometimes feel more like a challenge than a joy. But every once in a while, I push myself to do it anyway, hoping to rewrite the story I’ve carried about my cooking abilities, like my recent potluck Christmas in July gathering.
Because maybe hosting was never really about creating the perfect meal, it was always about creating a space where people feel welcome.
The truth is, I’d much rather sit across from someone at my dining room table, share a simple meal, drink coffee, and have a conversation that wanders wherever it needs to go.
And yet, over the years, I’ve been told something I never quite knew how to receive.
Friends, family, and even people visiting my home for the first time have described it as “cozy,” “peaceful,” and “welcoming.”
My first reaction has always been the same.
They’re just being nice.
I have a hard time accepting compliments unless I deem them to be real. My instinct is to question them, minimize them, or find a reason why they don’t actually count.
But when you hear the same thing from different people over and over again, eventually you have to wonder if there might be some truth in what they’re saying.
Maybe they’re not just noticing the furniture, the rugs, the lighting, or the way I’ve arranged things. Perhaps they’re experiencing something I didn’t even know I was creating.
Because the more I think about it, the more I realize my home today is a reflection of how I feel within my own soul.
For many years, I lived in survival mode. I was carrying responsibilities, expectations, grief, and the unending weight of taking care of others. My external world often reflected that internal heaviness.
But somewhere along the way, something shifted within me as inner healing took hold.
I had been creating a home around me that reflected the home I was learning to create within myself: peaceful, warm, welcoming, and safe.
I’m wondering if that’s what people are feeling when they walk through my door.
Maybe they’re not just experiencing my apartment. Maybe they’re sensing the peace of someone who has finally found a little more peace within herself.
Casa Grace isn’t perfect by any means, although I’ve spent far too many hours watching Fixer Upper and other HGTV shows trying to figure out my “design style.” It turns out my style has less to do with shiplap and more to do with making people feel at home. I call it “Nothing-Matches-but-Everyone-Belongs” chic.
It’s an 840-square-foot one-bedroom co-op in Riverdale, just a short distance north of Manhattan. Nothing fancy. No designer furniture or expensive pieces chosen to impress.
Most of my furniture was bought on sale, found on Facebook Marketplace, purchased from IKEA or Wayfair, or rescued from the basement of my building after someone moved out. Some pieces are antiques I’ve collected along the way. Every item has a story, even if that story has nothing to do with how much it cost.
Who doesn’t love a good deal? I approach shopping like a hunting expedition, always searching for the perfect find at the best price. And when I find it, I hear myself say, “SCORE!” I’m not sure if that’s an immigrant mindset or simply a smart one.
Years ago, I would have wanted to furnish my home with elegant finds from Restoration Hardware, Pottery Barn, or West Elm. These days, I care far more about the stories my home holds than the brands it displays.
But somehow, my little apartment has become a place where people can take off their shoes, settle in, share their stories, laugh loudly, sit quietly, or simply be.
And maybe that’s what home is really supposed to be.
Not a place that impresses people, but one that allows them to let go of the weight they initially carried through the door.
A space where anxiety softens, shoulders drop a few inches, and people leave carrying a little more peace than when they arrived.
I’m finding out that while I was creating a home for others, God was gently creating one within me.
Become a Storykeeper:
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Your support allows me to keep writing the stories that matter most to me—stories about identity, shame, faith, family, and the search for belonging.
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Together, we can explore the experiences that shaped you,
the beliefs you’ve carried, and what you want your next chapter to become.
If you’re curious and want to begin that conversation, I’d love to connect.
She didn't know she was creating something.
She was just healing —
and the apartment
learned to hold that
the way a good home does.
— AËLA
💯 my soul sista'💕💕