Designing Around How You Actually Live
When Bigger Isn’t Better
My first apartment in college was a tiny carriage house. Twenty by sixteen. Two bedrooms, barely a hallway, and somehow it still felt generous.
I could have three friends over comfortably and no one felt squeezed. The kitchen and living room sat side by side with a knee wall between them. It was tall enough to define the spaces but low enough that you could still see and talk to each other. Someone leaned on the counter. Someone sat on the sofa. No one disappeared.
That apartment worked socially because everything was within reach. You could be stirring pasta and still be part of the joke. You could sit down without committing to the entire evening. The layout quietly kept us together.
It wasn’t big. It was connected.
Years later, in another home, we were convinced we needed an addition. We had kids. We had one real living room. If you refuse to put TVs in bedrooms, there is only so much children’s programming a person can tolerate in a shared space.
We hired an architect. We explored options. And after some serious space planning, it became clear that what we needed was not more square footage. We needed better relationships between the spaces we already had.
Why Layout Matters
In commercial interior design, there is something called a proximity study. It sounds technical, but it is really just a way of asking which spaces should be near each other and which ones need some distance.
Homes benefit from that same clarity.
Sleeping areas need separation from daytime noise. Cooking and serving areas should be close. Bathrooms should not require a hike. Storage should live near the activity it supports. Access to the outdoors should make sense for how you actually use it.
Rooms have friends. And when they are not near their friends, you feel it. Even if you cannot explain why.
The Laundry Room Lesson
The most humbling example of this in my own life has been laundry.
In our first house, the laundry room was in the basement. I loved it. I could sort everything into piles on the floor, shut the door, and ignore it for a few hours. There was a folding table. Space to air dry. It was not pretty, but it worked beautifully.
In our next house, the laundry moved to the first floor and shared space with a half bath. After some thoughtful renovation, it functioned well. I had cabinets, a built-in sorting system, and I could stay near two small kids while managing it. The problem was that there was nowhere to really fold. No matter how hard I tried to stay on top of things, there was usually a hamper parked in a living room chair.
In this house, I was thrilled to have a second floor dedicated laundry room. No hauling baskets. Everything is near the bedrooms. It sounded ideal.
I hate it.
I am rarely upstairs during the day, so I have developed little mental tricks to remember to move the wash before it starts to smell. The room may be dedicated to laundry, but it was never designed to function well. It is too small. There is no proper folding space. The hampers live at the foot of my bed, and folding happens on top of it.
The lesson is not that one location is universally right. It is that placement only works when it aligns with a real routine.
Kitchens Don’t Exist in Isolation
The same thing happens when clients call and say they just want to renovate the kitchen.
Kitchen projects almost always drift into other parts of the first floor. Not because we are trying to expand scope, but because kitchens do not exist in isolation. Extending a kitchen into a dining room does not automatically create connection. It just creates a larger kitchen.
In a recent space planning project, we worked with a family who loves to cook and brew at home. Instead of preserving two separate living rooms, as the house was originally built, we reallocated square footage. The kitchen expanded and gained double islands. The former family room became the dining room. One comfortable living space was enough for them. What they truly needed was more room to cook and gather around food.
When we reshaped the layout around how they actually entertain, the house started supporting their habits instead of resisting them.
Aligning Layout with Real Life
At consultations, I often compare us to water. Water takes the shape of its vessel. Most of us take the shape of our homes.
We jam desks into corners. I am actually writing this at one of those corner jammed desks right now. We install wire racks at the bottom of the basement stairs and call it a pantry. We make do. We adapt.
It is hard to imagine something different because we have never really stopped to consider what it would feel like to shape the vessel rather than conform to it.
When we invest in a renovation or build from the ground up, we get the opportunity to rethink those relationships. To decide which rooms need to be near each other. To separate what should be quiet from what should be lively. To design around our routines instead of squeezing them into whatever footprint we inherited.
Designing spaces that bring people together is not about making everything open. It is not about making everything bigger. It is about aligning layout with behavior. It is about proximity, routine, and understanding what actually draws your family into the same room.
Take a look at your own first floor tonight.
- Notice where people drift.
- Notice where they do not.
- Notice where you have quietly made accommodations.
If your home were designed around how you actually live, not just how it was originally built, what would move? What would stay? What would finally make sense?
That is usually where meaningful renovation begins.
Only the good stuff, promise!