floor plans

The house had only ever belonged to one family before me.

It was passed down, generation to generation, until it reached me—worn, beautiful, waiting. When I found the original floor plans, rolled tight in a cardboard tube with faded pencil marks and handwritten notes, I felt like I was holding a quiet archive. Not just of wood and walls, but of the way someone once lived. The decisions they made. What they valued. What they needed.

The layout reflected that: a formal dining room for Sunday meals, small back bedrooms that probably held children or cousins or both, a narrow kitchen built more for function than flow. Every room told a story. Not of design, but of intention.

And I started to wonder about my own.

If I’m honest, a lot of my choices up until a few years ago were made from the outside in. What looks good. What sounds right. What performs well. The floor plans made me pause. Made me ask: what if the life I actually want doesn’t need a formal dining room?

I sat with the plans at my kitchen table, tracing lines with my finger, imagining new ones. I closed my eyes and pictured softness, space, stillness. A room that holds morning light. A kitchen that doesn’t perform. A home that breathes with me and holds the people I love.

Looking at how they lived made me think more about how I was living. How many choices I made for what looked good. What sounded impressive. What moved fast.

This house is helping me choose differently. To stop trying to replicate someone else’s idea of home, and started building one that fits me.

More slowly.
More honestly.
From the inside out.

The rooms are still taking shape but I’m building my own plan.
Floor plans soon.

—L