Lately, I’ve been watching architectural shows the way some people watch cooking competitions. Wide-eyed. Slightly dramatic. Fully aware that I do not, in fact, have Michelin-star money or, in my case, Oshatz or Aires Mateus money. (If you dont know their work look them up, amazing designs. Truly). I often tell my staff, “We don’t have Gucci money,” and I say it lovingly, realistically, and with spreadsheets in hand. Turns out, I also don’t have Portuguese minimalist genius who builds around trees money either.

And yet.

Watching those homes did something to me. Not in a tear down my house and start over way, but in a quieter, more dangerous way.  It made me start imagining a room. Just one.

Not a wing. Not a showpiece. A room.

A reading room. A library. A place built for warmth and introspection. Somewhere to sit with a book, a thought, a cocktail (or tea, depending on the day), and maybe a jacuzzi nearby. Possibly outdoors. Possibly under the stars. Definitely somewhere the nervous system could unclench.

My property, like my life, is not flat or easy. It slopes. It’s rocky. It’s steep. It has opinions. And instead of wanting to conquer it, I found myself wishing for someone who would get it. Someone who would say, “Ah yes, this is interesting terrain,” rather than “Well, this is a problem.”

That felt familiar.

Because for a long time, I’ve been the terrain others had to navigate. The one holding complexity. The one absorbing slope and friction and uneven ground so others could move forward. Strong exterior. Gentle interior. Lion and lamb, as it were.

What I realized is that I don’t actually want a famous architect (well, unless I get the money. But maybe not).  I want a container. A space that understands me. A room that doesn’t demand productivity or brilliance or leadership. A room that doesn’t ask me to be “on.” A room that holds silence kindly.

This isn’t about luxury. It’s about permission.

Permission to pause. To read slowly. To think half-formed thoughts. To feel warm. To soak. To sip something good and stare into nothing in particular. To be introspective without being isolated.

Maybe I’ll never build that room exactly as I imagine it. But naming it matters. Wanting it matters. Because the act of imagining a space that gives something back is already a form of reclaiming.

For years, I’ve built rooms for others, both figuratively and literally. Systems. Structures. Safety nets. Now, I find myself asking a radical question.

What would it look like to build a room just for me?

I don’t need Gucci money.
I don’t need a famous name etched into concrete.

I just need a room that says:
You’re allowed to rest here.

And honestly, that might be the most important structure I ever build.