There are moments, usually late at night, when the urge is not for meditation or deep breathing, but for a primal scream. The kind that rattles walls. Followed closely by aggressively loud potato chips. Crunchy. Salty. Possibly eaten straight from the bag like an emotional support activity. Actually, I’m going to confess this is not just late at night for me. Sometimes, it’s at noon. Sometimes at 5pm.

This is not a failure of mindfulness. This is a nervous system speaking plainly.

When life gets loud, it doesn’t always announce itself with sirens. Sometimes it’s the steady hum of responsibility. The constant decision-making. The holding it together. The endless tabs open in your brain. The awareness that time is moving whether you’re ready or not.

And so we crave rooms.

Not rooms as in square footage or real estate listings. Rooms as in containers. Places that hold us when everything else feels uncontained. A room that says that one can stop scanning now. That the edges are here.

Psychologically, rooms are regulation. They offer boundaries when the world feels porous. They reduce noise, both external and internal. They give our brains a signal that it’s safe to stand down, at least for a moment.

This is why people fantasize about reading nooks, libraries, soaking tubs, window seats, treehouses, basements, attics, and even soundproof rooms where one could scream and no one would call the authorities. It’s not escapism. It’s self-preservation.

I’ve noticed that the louder life gets, the less I want wide-open plans and the more I want intentional enclosure. A place to think. Or not think. A place where the only decision is which book to open or whether the cocktail should have ice. I don’t like ice much, by the way.

And yet, and here’s the paradox, we don’t always crave calm in a quiet, Instagrammable way. Sometimes we crave controlled chaos. The crunch of chips. The volume turned up. The release of sound and sensation that reminds us we’re still here, still embodied, still human.

A good room understands this.

A good room doesn’t demand serenity. It allows it. It also allows mess. Noise. Laughter. Tears. Crunching. Silence. All of it. A good room doesn’t judge how you regulate. It just holds you while you do.

So yes, I want a reading room. I’ve stated this before. I guess I’m obsessed. I want a warm, introspective space. Possibly with wood and light and a view. Possibly with a jacuzzi nearby because water is magic and we all know it. But I also want it to be the kind of room where I can occasionally lose my composure in peace.

Because craving a room isn’t about withdrawal from life. It’s about staying in it without burning out.

Sometimes self-care looks like a quiet book and a soft chair.
Sometimes it looks like yelling into the void with snacks.

Both are valid.
Both deserve a room.