There have been times I’ve walked into my kitchen from the grocery store, arms so full you’d think I’m competing on Survivor.
I go to set the bags on the island but it’s covered in mail, dishes, Amazon returns, crumbs, my basil plant, and something sticky.
So I head for the counter by the sink.
Nope.
A pretty vintage riser holds paper towels, salt and pepper, and a tiny terrarium. Beside the sink are flowers from the yard that need tossing, dishes drying on a towel, my mixer, a cookbook stand.
There’s nowhere to land.
I end up setting the groceries on the floor.
And suddenly putting away groceries feels like twelve separate jobs.
Can we just order takeout?
Then I walk into the family room.
It’s clean. Vacuumed, even.
But every surface is occupied.
Books. Candles. Plants. Chargers. Coffee cups. Magazines. Blankets. Decorative objects.
Can you relate?
My house won’t let me have a moment’s peace.
It’s overflowing with the beautiful.
The functional.
The meaningful.
The gifted.
And all the things I haven’t quite figured out what to do with.
My house is visually loud.
Visual noise doesn’t just clutter your home.
It clutters your mind.
Even if you’ve technically decluttered.
Even if everything you own is “good stuff.”
Even if your home is beautifully decorated.
If every surface is full,
if every corner is working overtime,
if your eyes don’t know where to land…
…your home is still noisy.
And noise—even visual noise—is exhausting.
When you walk into a visually loud room, your brain doesn’t think,
“How beautiful.”
It starts working.
Do these flowers need to go?
Why are there three remotes?
Should I finally donate that basket?
Why do I own twelve candles?
Visual noise quietly activates your brain when what you really need is for your home to help you deactivate.
That’s why visual noise is so depleting.
But here’s the tension.
I don’t want quiet at the expense of soul.
And I don’t want soul at the expense of peace.
I want both.
I want a home that can handle real life—groceries, projects, guests, and ordinary Tuesday afternoons.
I want a home filled with beauty and meaning.
And I want enough margin to actually live inside it.
That’s soulful simplicity.
I spent years trying to declutter my house.
It turns out I wasn’t trying to own less.
I was trying to feel more at peace.
Those are two very different goals.
That’s why I wrote House Hushing.
Not because I think you should own less.
But because I believe you deserve to feel more at peace in the home you already have.
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