This is the scariest thing I’ve ever published (!)

A personal essay about home, hustle, and what I’ve learned to care about

I always tell people to do the thing that scares them. Commit to the wallpaper. Take the risky job you’re excited about. Choose the color that makes your stomach flip (in a good way). It’s how I make most of my decisions, which brings me to today’s confession: this is me doing the scary thing.

I recently took a six-week writing workshop to explore storytelling through a more personal lens. The idea of sharing something more vulnerable than my usual work completely terrified me. At the end of the workshop, we had to read one of our essays aloud. I wasn’t sure I’d even share mine publicly, but after encouragement from my classmates (and the brilliant Kate Devine), I said yes.

This essay feels more intimate than anything I’ve published, and a little different from my usual schtick, but it’s deeply connected to why I do what I do. I’ve thrown myself into this slightly obsessive quest to figure out why home and design matter so much to me, and this piece came out of that.

It’s about home, of course, but also care, memory, and opting out of hustle in favor of a life (and a space) that feels like your own.

This essay is called To Whom It May Concern. I hope you enjoy.

To Whom It May Concern

When I was six, my mom, brother, and I moved in with my grandparents after my parents split. I don’t remember much about that apartment, but I do remember that my grandma kept the house pristine in a way that now feels ceremonial: plastic over the staircase runners, fake fruit in a lacquered bowl, and a fun plastic tablecloth for every meal. My grandpa was a collector of things. Old maps of places he dreamed of going. A library of Reader’s Digest issues. His analog tape recorder.

Their aesthetics didn’t really match, but it was cared for.

I didn’t know then that I’d spend my adult life trying to recreate that feeling. Or that I’d eventually make a career out of helping other people do it too.

My grandparents (and my grandma’s preferred way to decorate: faux flowers).

I used to think my dream job was working at a well-respected magazine in New York, living some version of The Devil Wears Prada. And at the time, it really was.

I sent out dozens of cover letters filled with phrases like “thrives in a fast-paced environment” and “works well under pressure.” I always started them the same way: To Whom It May Concern. Like I was writing to a powerful gatekeeper I might never meet, trying to sound capable, professional, and worthy of hiring.

I said yes to everything. I wore stylish shoes that made my feet bleed. I thought that if I worked hard enough, stayed late enough, and impressed the right people, I’d eventually feel like I belonged there.

And in a way, I did. I wouldn’t trade the rush of it for anything. But I also remember being so tired I’d sometimes sleep in the closet, too broke some weeks to buy groceries, and so hungover from events I felt lucky just to be invited to.

I didn’t realize back then that “dream job” and “dream life” might be very different things.

A go-getter!!! God help her.

Most people think creating a home is about stuff. Decorative things like pillows, expensive coffee tables, and artwork. And yes, those things are often found in a home.

But design—especially color—is mostly emotional work. It’s about helping people feel at ease in their lives. Translating something they can’t quite put into words into something they can see, touch, and live inside.

That’s the part no one really talks about: the quiet emotional labor that lives underneath every decision. The liminal space between the mood boards, presentations, and swatches.

I’ve moved a lot since that apartment with my grandparents. A string of townhouses and rentals, each with its quirks. It didn’t matter how long I stayed, because I always made them feel like mine.

Even now, I catch myself fussing over a stack of books or an empty corner in the house. My husband calls it my “glitching” phase, when I’m stuck in a loop, staring at something for too long. I’m not obsessing because it looks wrong, but because it doesn’t feel right. Maybe what I’m really doing is trying to create something that feels like a distant memory.

What I’ve learned is this: creating a home isn’t about how it looks. It’s about how it holds you.

My grandma didn’t dust the fake grapes because she thought they were stylish. She did it because she believed the care itself mattered. My grandpa didn’t organize his collection of tchotchkes to impress anyone. He just liked knowing they were there. A record of what interested him.

Maybe creating a home is less about “making do” and more about making meaning after all.

When the fake fruit graduates from the bowl to the wall.

When I work with clients now, I’m not just thinking about aesthetics. I’m thinking about the story the room is trying to tell. The version of the person who lives there, and the version they want to become. Sometimes I think my work is just helping people come home to themselves, with better lighting and more confidence.

It took me a while to get there myself.

I used to stay in jobs to prove I could keep up. I thought that was what it meant to be capable. Now I create spaces that help people slow down.

I’m still captivated by the process. Still rearranging. Still chasing that feeling. But now I know that creating a home isn’t superficial. It’s not fast-paced, or performative, or supposed to feel good under pressure.

It’s quiet and intentional. A rhythm that brings you the kind of joy and love you can step inside.

This isn’t a letter to prove myself anymore. Just a note, to whom it may concern: I finally found what I was looking for, and it feels like home.

If you’ve made it this far… GAH! Thank you so much for reading.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we all carry different definitions of home. If you feel like sharing yours—whether it’s a memory, a color, or a place—I’d love to hear it.

xo Daniela