Sanctuary for the Soul
thoughts on reclaiming sense
It’s early. As in the birds haven’t even started their bullshit-chipper morning songs yet and there is a thick quiet still sitting on the outside world as the sun considers its options. The only sound is that of a lone car moving slower than usual on the busy road out front. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, engaged in the silent, ten-minute negotiation between my mind and body about the advantages of actually leaving the comforts of bed. Eventually, I realize it’s time.
Teeth brushed, hair brushed, and clothed – that’s the extent of my capability this morning. My partner, a saint of a man, has a cup of coffee waiting for me, and we climb into the truck. I yawn, making a series of obscene noises that mirror my feelings about the day ahead. We hit the road and are immediately met with a solid wall of traffic. Yep. This day is going to be a rush of complete and utter exhaustion.
When we finally make it to the airport and say our goodbyes, I have about forty-five minutes until my plane boards. My anxiety is already a low hum, with no wiggle room for hiccups or obsessive-compulsive tics. Thank god for TSA pre-check. Much to my disbelief, I’m through all the checkpoints and at my gate in a record eight minutes. I actually have time for a second coffee and a snack. I pull out my phone to check on my birds – I have solar cameras all over the feeders like a feathered cell tower – and see them finally awake, fluttering in a frenzy for seed. I take a deep breath, knowing the rest of this day is going to be a whirlwind after this moment of reprieve.
And a whirlwind it was. From the first airport to a day of meetings, barely snagging some sad bodega food before it was back to another airport and a flight home. There was no time to breathe, no time to enjoy a real meal, no time to even feel like myself – which sucks when you’re supposed to be “on authentic” for a work function. By the time I finally got my cup of onion soup and a burger from my favorite restaurant near SeaTac, it was the only real meal I’d had all day, and I was absolutely spent. I was so exhausted that I started to hate how heavy my own underwear felt. I wanted nothing more than to peel off my socks and pants and slip into the biggest, baggiest sweatpants known to humankind.
Then, finally, I hit the couch. To feel the warm hug of the dark, Sea Serpent blue room wrap around me, a comfort from the day’s required extroversion. All the eye contact, all the small talk, all the day’s deprivations just seem to slip away into the cushions. My stomach full and the satisfaction of a hot cup of tea – appropriately called “Stress Relief” – hits my soul. I am home. I am ready to shed the day’s chaos.
I look around, and I realize in that moment that this is my sanctuary. It’s the space where I can finally unleash, the refuge from a seventeen-hundred-goddamn-mile round-trip commute. It’s the antidote to that deep, cellular exhaustion, that feeling of being scraped raw by the sheer friction of fake conversations and zero substance. And in this moment, I am so deeply, profoundly thankful.
Lying here, I start thinking about how we ever got so far from this. How did we forget the ancient, primal purpose of a home? This whole idea of a sensory sanctuary isn’t some new-age trend. It’s ancient as fuck. We’re just the generations that got so comfortable we somehow forgot what actually makes a space a refuge. For most of human history, engaging all the senses wasn't a decorating choice – it was a matter of survival that just so happened to be, in my opinion, beautiful.
A home wasn't a backdrop for a social media post. It was a fortress against a world that was often cold, hard, and loud – a reality that sounds all too familiar these days. Every single item had a job. Heavy tapestries weren't just for color; they were insulation against damp stone. Furs on the floor weren't just rustic cabin-core décor; they were a soft, warm barrier against the cold earth. Touch wasn't a luxury; it was a tool for survival. Think Game of Thrones, but with slightly worse hygiene, maybe.
The air inside didn't smell like a plug-in. It smelled of life itself, of woodsmoke that meant you wouldn't starve or freeze – a feeling I was intimately familiar with just a few hours ago. The aroma of drying herbs wasn't potpourri; it was the pharmacy and the pantry being stocked for winter. The soundscape was the crackle of the hearth, the bubbling of a pot, the rhythmic thump of a loom – the sounds of life being preserved. Light itself was a living thing, a flickering flame that left deep, comforting shadows where you could retreat.
Then came…well, progress, I guess. We invented central heating, so tapestries became optional art. We invented the electric lightbulb, replacing the living flame with a static, odorless glare that erased the shadows. But the worst of it, the real soul-killer, was the Pinterest Effect that came many, many years later. We started designing for the camera. A home’s worth shifted from how it felt to its inhabitants, how it met their needs for survival of mind and soul, to how it looked to outsiders. We traded primal comfort for sterile aesthetics, stripping our homes of the very things we need at the end of a hard day.
Well, fuck that.
I’m not saying let’s ditch modern conveniences and pretend to be medieval peasants – although I do love wrapping up in my faux animal pelt blankets and calling for my partner like a "water wench" (it’s all in jest). I’m saying, let’s consciously layer these ancient, sensory comforts back into our modern lives. Let’s reclaim the home that works for our nervous systems, our sanity, our deep-seated need for a true refuge. Let’s make our spaces feel like us, not some impostor version of who we think we should be.
Because some days, existing in the world feels like bathing with burlap sandpaper and tiny knives. Our homes should be the opposite. They should be grounding, a haven of comforting textures. And no, I’m not talking about expensive textiles, but about what the body craves when it wants to feel safe.
It reminds me of a hug I once got at a yoga retreat in Ashland, Oregon. The kind that wraps around you, lingers far longer than it should, and says, you can let go now. When I close my eyes and imagine that hug, I find myself sunk deep in an old armchair, its worn leather already molded to my shape and a soft bouquet of the Portland Saturday Market creeps from it’s pores. A chunky alpaca blanket is on my lap and a dog (or three) is applying some not-so-gentle pressure that finally gives me permission to just say fuck it and relax. In my hand is my favorite plant person mug, its heat smelling of cedar as I set it on the colorful wood coasters we made one summer.
That’s the grounding. For you, it may be different. Maybe your comfort is a slick, flawless surface, a white downy comforter that feels like you’re luxuriating in a department store showroom. Or maybe it’s the scuffs on the pleather that tell your story. Let it be all those things. Enjoy the imperfections in the blankets you may or may not have made yourself. I love the coffee ring on the side table, or the gigantic hole where the cat knocked over my first attempt at sculpting. That’s the texture of a life being lived.
And don’t stop at touch. After a day of auditory assault from endless Teams pings, the most beautiful sound in the world is the latch of my office door clicking shut behind me. That initial hit of silence is everything. But this sanctuary isn’t totally quiet. It’s intentionally quiet. It’s about replacing the jarring noise of the world with a soundscape of your own creation, a conscious act against the tyranny of notifications and 24-hour doom scroll cycles.
Finding what calm sounds like is a personal journey. It might be gardening to System of a Down, and I love that for both of us. Or maybe it’s the low hum of André 3000’s New Blue Sun on the record player, because the crackling sound of wood-wick candles scares the shit out of me. Maybe yours is the rhythmic patter of that Pacific Northwest soundtrack on the windowpane, or the near-silent bubbling of soup on the stove. Whatever it is, it should soothe and demand nothing.
So just listen for a moment. Let yourself melt into the soundscapes that bring you peace, even if it’s only for a few minutes. Taking in a deep breath. Engaging in the most primal sense.
Scent is my all-time favorite. It’s hardwired directly to memory, and it can instantly signal to the brain that this is a safe space. For me, calm smells like the earthy petrichor after a good rain, an old book whose scent alone brings on a wave of happiness, fresh coffee, or a pot of cinnamon and citrus peels simmering on the stove. Maybe for you, it’s a diffuser puffing out cedarwood, or the clean scent of a specific soap — my favorite is called Monkey Farts. And let’s be real, it doesn't always have to smell like a spa or the elven forests of Lothlórien. The smell of garlic and onions sautéing for dinner is pure joy (seriously, can I please get that in a candle?). It's authentic. It’s about filling your space with what you find comforting, safe, and peaceful.
Ultimately, it’s about you. It’s not about what’s on trend. One of the worst things we do to ourselves – and I’ve done it far too often – is paralyze ourselves by looking at other people’s homes and feeling like ours don’t measure up. We watch in envy, snag something we think we "should" have, and immediately hate it because it isn’t us. I did it. I got the all-white kitchen I thought I needed, and it sucked the life right out of me. Never again.
So who gives a fuck what it looks like to others? Does that worn-out chair feel amazing when you sink into it? Do you love the sound of video games as you relax with your partner? Is your home restorative to you? That is the only question that matters.
And fuck the so-called "home values." I cannot tell you how many people have walked into the lower level of my home, with its dark ceilings and a hallway that feels like a moody art gallery, and nervously said something about resale. I mean, really, Karen? This house hadn’t had people living in it for a decade. There was human feces on the roof and a tree growing in the attic. So let’s be clear: anything and everything I do to this Monet Pit is, in fact, adding value. But even if your home’s legacy doesn't involve roof feces, you can and should still build a space that feels so damn good to come home to that you're never sad to see the front door close behind you.
This particular rabbit hole of thoughts was fueled by an unhealthy amount of caffeine and at least one questionable life choice. If you enjoyed the ride, you can help fund the next one.