Things I Love

Before I begin, I want to say that speaking about the things I love feels a little like opening a drawer I usually keep closed, not because what’s inside is secret, but because it is personal in the quietest way, the way preferences and rituals and small devotions shape a life without ever asking to be explained.

The things I love are not declarations or statements meant to persuade; they are accumulations, gathered slowly over time, discovered through living, through noticing what steadies me, what brings me back to myself, what makes a day feel inhabited rather than passed through. They are not impressive, and they are not curated for effect, they are simply what remains after years of paying attention.

I am sharing them not because they are extraordinary, but because they are honest. Because there is something grounding in naming what you return to again and again, what you trust, what you choose when no one is watching. These loves are small in scale but deep in impact, and together they form the texture of my days, the quiet architecture of my life.

So this is not a list meant to be consumed quickly.
It is an invitation to linger.
A way of saying: this is how I move through the world.

So I will start with how much I love dramatic weather, the kind that announces itself without apology, rain pouring down hard enough to blur the edges of the world, thunder rolling low and wide through the sky, lightning cracking open the dark, while I am inside, safe, wrapped in warmth, listening, knowing without question that I am exactly where I am meant to be, protected by walls that hold not just heat but memory, ritual, and all the small comforts I have gathered over time.

I love home. Not as a concept, but as a feeling that settles into my body when I close the door behind me, when I am surrounded by the objects I have chosen slowly and intentionally, the things that have followed me through years and seasons, the collected proof of a life lived with attention, because I am someone who loves being home, who finds deep satisfaction in staying, in nesting, in creating a space that reflects who I am and what I value.

I love flowers, always and forever, flowers in every form, fresh and wilting and gathered and wild, flowers that mark time and mood and season, flowers that say what words cannot, flowers that will absolutely have their own space here because they are woven too deeply into who I am to be brushed past quickly.

I love long showers, the kind where the world quiets and steam rises and thoughts loosen their grip, and I love clean sheets after a long shower, that particular moment at the end of a long day when your body meets something fresh and cool and forgiving, a reset disguised as a small domestic pleasure.

I love dark coffee, strong and grounding, poured into a mug I choose very carefully each morning, because the vessel matters as much as the ritual, and some days call for weight and some for delicacy, and I like to listen to what the morning asks of me before I decide.

I love cooking, creating meals for the people I love as a way of caring for them, whether it is a full dinner or just a small snack, because even the simplest food matters when it is made with attention. And I love creating meals for my boys that are beautiful and nourishing, even if they choose not to eat them, even if they end up scattered across the floor, because the act of offering still matters, and care is not measured by what is consumed.

I love hosting friends inside my sacred space, opening my home as a gesture of care, setting a table, lighting a candle, creating an atmosphere that says stay as long as you like.

I love vintage, but the cherry…501 Levi’s and vintage Wranglers, denim that has already lived, already softened, already learned how to move with a body, and I love antique white lace tops, delicate and enduring all at once, because my uniform, my truest one, is jeans and a white top, always has been, always returns, simple enough to hold everything else.

I love pink clouds and sunsets and sunrises, but especially sunrises, because I am a morning person and early light feels like a secret shared only with those willing to be awake for it, the sky blushing quietly, the world beginning again without fanfare, and those moments reach me in a place that feels deeper than language.

I love bespoke paper, organic cotton rag paper with texture and substance, paper that holds ink and pressure and intention, and I love creating on it, and one day creating it itself. Slowly, carefully, the act of making something tangible in a world that feels increasingly intangible.

I love architecture, the way rooms and buildings hold memory and intention, how light moves across walls and through windows, how space can make you feel safe, held, or quietly inspired without ever asking for attention.

I love warm, humid summer mornings when the air feels heavy with promise, and I love big, thick snowflakes falling from the night sky, because that is when you can really see them, drifting and deliberate, transforming everything without sound.

I love natural scents, real ones, honest ones, grounded ones and that, too, will be something I return to properly, because scent is memory and mood and atmosphere, and deserves to be spoken about with care.

I love cut glass, the way light hits it just right and fractures into rainbows that scatter across walls and tables, a quiet reminder that beauty often appears when light meets something imperfect and faceted.

I love wandering. Wondering through markets, antique stores, gardens. Moving without urgency, letting my eye and intuition lead, because I love to collect treasure, shells from the beach, special books, sticks, feathers, small found things that feel like they chose me as much as I chose them.

I love cleaning and organizing, the satisfaction of restoring order, of caring for what I have, of tending to my space the way one tends a garden, not out of obligation but affection.

I love giving more than I love receiving, even though I am not always in a position to give in the ways I imagine, and so I find small ways instead, because generosity does not require abundance, only intention, and if I could, I would give everyone everything, simply because sharing what I have feels like the most natural way I know how to love.

There is so much more, of course and there always is. There are so many things I love than could ever fit here, and many of them will reveal themselves slowly, over time, as this journal continues to take shape, because a life is not something you explain all at once, but something you return to, noticing different details depending on the season you are in. I will share more as this journey evolves not all at once, not with urgency, but as it feels right allowing the things I love to appear naturally, the way they always have, woven quietly into the days as they unfold.

And perhaps that is what all of this is about really. Not accumulation, but attention, not perfection, but presence, not having more, but loving what you already hold.