What a gift of a thing to say to someone—because I never feel that way.

Storytelling is the throughline for me. Writing has always helped me process the world, and visually, I never thought about storytelling that way until Instagram. But now I see it—whether through a post or in Upstate—as inviting someone to pause and see something special: the way light comes through trees, the sound of water over rocks. It's like reaching out and gently turning someone’s head to say, "Look." I think that’s what good artists do—they help you see something already there, but in a way you hadn't before.

When I was working on Upstate, Sarah [Elliott, the photographer,] would shoot all day and I would hang out with the homeowners, chatting. I think what stuck with me is how much "home" is about people and their stories—how every part of their life led them to that space.

I’m really curious about the idea of home because it’s more than just where your chair is from—it’s who you are, how you live.

When Jonathan and I bought our house, I think we were both hungry to create a space to host people and make memories. It wasn’t performative—it was about care. Now, when I look around our house, I see those memories. Like when we pushed the couches together and made a giant raft to sleep on because everyone was staying over.

I’ve realized my love language is definitely creating spaces—putting crisp sheets on a guest bed, clipping lilacs for a vase. Making people feel cared for. And in return, they give you those memories that make a house feel like home.

I think it definitely evolved. Of course, we had this dream of hosting people and creating a warm, welcoming space, but we didn’t fully know what we were doing when we bought the house. It was the biggest space we’d ever been in, and honestly, I think we had to live in it for a while to figure out what it needed.

When we moved in, we painted everything white—floors, walls—because we didn’t have a lot of furniture or things to fill it yet, and we needed a blank canvas. After coming from a tiny Brooklyn apartment that was so packed with stuff, I think we both needed that visual quiet.

We lived like that for a while—probably a year and a half—before I was ready for it to feel cozier, more like us.

I think both Jonathan and I are natural nesters—we like to have things in their place and feel settled quickly. But what I’ve realized with this house is that it takes time to understand what works, how light moves through a space, what you need.

Now, years later, I’m finally layering in textiles, art, and objects that make it feel lived in and loved. It’s funny because people often think that because you write about interiors, your house will look perfect all the time, but that’s not reality—it’s a process.

It is! And it feels like such a joyful kind of problem-solving. Like, "What’s missing here? What would make this feel warmer or more interesting?"

It’s also fun because I love those little quests—like right now, I’m obsessed with finding a lamp that’s all wood. I think those kinds of small, ongoing searches keep the creative part of my brain engaged.

Definitely. I think I’ve always been drawn to creating small worlds around me, even as a kid. Like, when I was little, I would build little spaces in the back of my parents’ car with pillows and books and make it my own world. The impulse to create a space that feels safe and beautiful has always been there.

And I think beauty, for me, is about more than aesthetics—it’s about creating a feeling. I love when a room feels like it holds you.

Yes. I think part of it is wanting to create a space that holds me, but also holds the people I love. I think about how nice it is to put fresh sheets on a bed for a guest, or clip a little flower for their nightstand.

It’s about creating an environment that feels cared for—and that makes people feel cared for, too.

Oh, absolutely. I think our home feels totally different in winter versus summer. In winter, it’s almost like a ship—we’re in this little vessel moving through cold and snow, hunkered down. It’s cozy and insular.

Then in summer, it’s like the house spills out into the yard—everything feels expansive and open. The outdoors becomes an extension of our home. It’s such a shift; I love how the house feels different depending on the season.

And I think those shifts are part of what keeps it feeling alive. Like, there are times when I want to bring in all these branches and flowers, and other times when I want everything to feel pared back and quiet. I think following those rhythms keeps me connected to the space.

I don’t know if I have conscious rituals, but I do think there are things I naturally reach for when I’m feeling creatively stuck.

Like, when I’m writing and I feel uninspired, I’ll read something—a book, an article, even a short story. Reading good writing always sparks something for me.

With interiors, I’ll usually scroll Pinterest—not to copy things, but to notice little details, like a color combination or a texture. And sometimes I’ll just move things around in the house, like re-styling a shelf or a table. That always makes me see things differently.

Living upstate has also been such a gift for creativity. Being able to go outside and clip flowers or branches—there’s always something new growing, and that connects me to the seasons and to the space. It’s funny because when I was a florist in the city, flowers were so expensive, and now I’m like, "I can just go to the yard and pick them." It feels like such a luxury, but also a reminder that beauty can be simple and free.

Yes, absolutely. And it’s funny, because I don’t always think about it, but when you say that, it makes me realize—yes, that’s a huge part of what brings me joy. I think creating something beautiful, whether it's a room or a table, just makes me feel good in a really deep way.

Maybe that’s why interiors resonate so much with me—because it’s about creating a space that holds you. I think I’ve always used creativity as a way to build worlds that feel safe. Even as a kid, getting lost in a book was stepping into a different world. And now, as an adult, I think I do that with our home—trying to create an environment that feels nurturing and calming, especially when the outside world doesn’t always feel that way.

Home is so many things. I think there’s this deep, nostalgic pull to the idea of home—it’s the first place that holds you. The first place where you feel safe, if you're lucky. And I think as adults, we’re always trying to recreate that in some way—whether we’re aware of it or not. Trying to make a space that gives us that feeling of safety and comfort.

For me, home is where I feel held. A place that feels like an emotional support system. Somewhere that, when you walk through the door, you can exhale. Even when we lived in a tiny Brooklyn apartment, it was still that—a place where we could shut the door and be in our own little world.

And I think it’s also about creating that for other people. I love being able to have friends and family over and making them feel taken care of. It’s not just about what’s in the house—it’s about the memories that get made there. Like, I can look at a corner of the living room and think, "That’s where everyone gathered during that snowstorm," or "That’s where we played cards all night." Those are the layers that build up over time and make a house feel alive.

There’s so much pressure, especially online, to have a "finished" home, but I think a home should grow with you. It should take time. You bring things in as you live your life, as you figure out what you need and what makes you feel good. And sometimes it takes years!

It’s been a huge lesson for me. I used to want everything to be done immediately, but this house has taught me to be patient and let things evolve naturally. And I think that’s part of what makes it feel like home.

I would say, let it be slow. Don’t feel like you have to fill every space right away. Live in it, notice what you’re drawn to, what feels good.

And don’t feel like it has to be expensive. Some of my favorite things are simple—like bringing in a branch, or a rock I found on a walk. Those things have a story and make a space feel personal.

Also, pay attention to what feels comforting to you—because that’s different for everyone. For me, it’s textiles, scent, lighting, and having beautiful natural things around. For someone else, it might be books, or art, or color.

So I guess my advice would be: listen to yourself, take your time, and let your home be a reflection of you, not what you think it’s supposed to be.’

Thank you! This was such a lovely conversation.