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Lauren Simon's avatar

A home never feels done, but there are moments when it feels right. And right is better than done.

Done implies finished, static, closed. But a home that’s truly lived in keeps revealing itself. You move a lamp and suddenly a corner wakes up. You finally hang the thing you’ve been leaning against the wall for two years and the whole room exhales. Those aren’t signs you were failing before. They’re signs the house is talking to you and you’re finally listening.

So no. It’s never done. But there’s a moment, usually after something hard, a renovation, a move, a loss, when you walk in and it holds you. That’s the feeling people are chasing. Not completion. Just belonging.

Sarah Craven's avatar

I think I need a whackerspoon.

Meanwhile, my take on when a home feels "done". When my son was in third grade, his amazing teacher suggested he try a fountain pen to fix his (truly unreadable) handwriting. My first reaction was to complain to my mom about who in their right mind would give a 10 year old a fountain pen and a bottle of ink in a house of pale carpets and a beige couch. My mom suggested to me that one day in the future I would move a piece of furniture, find an ink stain and it would make me smile. She was right. A home isn't finished when everything looks perfect. It's finished when the pencil marks on the doorframe mean more than fresh paint — and an old ink stain becomes a love letter from a life well lived.

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