She's here!

My book baby has been delivered! Plus: read an excerpt below!

Hello, Friends! Today’s the day! MY BOOK IS OUT NOW!

Let me know if you’ve got a copy, and if you love it what you think when you’ve read it! It is my deepest hope that we can change the conversation about home and put our feelings firmly at the heart of how and where we live. I’d love to hear what the book has made you think about.

As this email wends its way to you, I’m heading off to a book signing event with Brunswick where I used to work in the very early days of my career. That period of my life coincided with a few tales I share in the book, so I’m looking forward to people blanching slightly at the thought of inadvertently making a cameo…

To celebrate this milestone, and to thank you all for patiently joining me on this ride, I wanted to give you all a taste of the book—and hopefully encourage any of you on the fence about buying a copy to head into your nearest bookshop / click ‘buy now’ / download my voice into your ears. I figured there’s no better place to start than the Introduction, so without much further ado here’s the very beginning of Where the Heart Is… available to buy NOW!

‘Home is a place we all must find, child. It’s not just a place where you eat or sleep. Home is knowing. Knowing your mind, knowing your heart, knowing your courage. If we know ourselves, we’re always home, anywhere.’

Glinda the Good, The Wiz

When I was twenty-three years old, I lived with a woman who didn’t know how to close the front door. At least once a week, I’d come home to find it swinging open on its hinges, our furniture and electronics miraculously unrobbed. We were five housemates in total, living across three floors in a terraced house on a residential side street in Brixton, south London. The first time I met everyone was the day I moved in. Initially, the persistent open door was a mystery to us all. The first time it happened, Joey, my Italian-American housemate (yes, really), came storming into the living room to gently rebuke one of us ‘dipshitted assholes’ for leaving us open to murder and theft. He had a point. And yet it continued.

We were already a paranoid bunch, taking our own toilet roll into the bathroom and labelling our cheese. For weeks, I had an argument sustained entirely via Post-it notes about where the laundry basket was supposed to live. In this humming dystopia, the door became an irresistible fixation that defied common sense or comprehension. The more we contrived to crack open the truth from one another, the more we wound each other up.

It’s so easy to live with someone and never talk to them. In the absence of conversation, all we had to go on was action, or inaction. The landlord suggested a weekly Residents’ Meeting, which we squirmed through for a month or so until we each found reasons to be busy. I didn’t need an excuse; I scarcely touched the sides of that home. My life had just been shaken up and London was fizzing through my veins. I was newly single and finally employed in a Proper Job that paid so badly it didn’t even hit the lowest UK tax threshold, but it knocked me into a social circle that filled my glass and kept me out until 3 a.m. four nights a week. I didn’t have time for a domestic life, and I certainly didn’t have time to make friends with my housemates.

As the weeks peeled by, and the door continued to exist beyond the realm of handles or locks, we asked the landlord to install an alarm. It would, we reasoned, be impossible to set the alarm and leave the door open or open the door without setting the alarm off. The very nature of having an alarm made us newly alert to who was in the house and when, because you could only set it when we were all out. Well, that was fine, we concluded; we just had to establish when everyone left for work in the morning, and the last person out would put it on. The landlord, ever-inclined to officialdom, called an Extraordinary Residents’ Meeting and we gathered around the table for what we all silently prayed would be our last enforced meal together.

That was when we found out that the most inoffensive of our flatmates, a young woman called Olivia who I had barely registered as living there, had lost her job. A few months back, actually. She was struggling to find something new and so she’d taken up baking in the meantime. She’d made some brownies for us. They had something special in them too … Did we want one?

Everything started to make a lot more sense after I realized that Olivia had been high every single day since I’d first met her. She appeared to be newly surprised about the door that evening, as if receiving this remarkable information for the very first time. She giggled her way through the rest of the meeting until we all traipsed up to bed, exhausted by the emotional toil of living with people you cannot wrap your head around. When I came back down for a glass of water, Olivia had dragged her duvet and pillow downstairs. She was making a nest just behind the front door, promising to stay alert all night in the hopes of catching the moment when the door magically sprang open on its hinges. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

By that time in my life, I had moved home seventeen times. In fact, the day I walked through the perennially open front door of my new home in Brixton, I had moved four times between two countries in six months. I would go on to move another eight or so times, and on to another country. It wasn’t until I moved into the home where I live today – the place where I have lived almost the longest – that I actually asked myself what I needed and wanted from it.

When I look back at the various places I’ve called home over the last four decades, I see refracted images of myself, as if each act of homemaking revealed a new facet of my identity. Moving home, through choice or through circumstance, is how I have moved through life. Sometimes I moved with a rucksack, other times I took a lorryful of packing boxes and bubble-wrapped valuables. But how many of those front doors opened into places that actually felt like home? Half, maybe? Less, to be honest. I have come to learn, often the hard way, that where we live and where we feel at home can be very different places. This book is about what makes that difference.

Today I live in a small apartment in Copenhagen, the Danish capital that’s home to beers, bikes and statuesque blondes. I moved here with my husband in 2015, during a heatwave. Those first weeks in the city were spent in a spritz-fuelled haze as the long summer days melted into ambient warm nights, and we did little more than bounce between the bars and cafes that lined the historic canals and cobbled streets. When I filed the papers for my residency card and was asked to give the reason for my relocation, there was no box for me to tick. I had no permanent job, no studies, no family already living here to reunite with. After years of battling with London, we had quite simply moved for life, and Copenhagen appeared to be where I was best suited for living it. Even the inevitable Scandinavian winter couldn’t diminish the joy with which I embraced my new hygge lifestyle. I lit a lot of candles, consumed vast quantities of bread and pastries, and gleefully persisted in ordering glasses of red wine in local dive bars that only served beer on tap. I may have looked like a hobbit in a land of elves, but there was no better way to describe it: Copenhagen felt like home.

Moving to Denmark also pushed my journey home directly into the roaring freeway of my work. In late 2016 I joined the southern-Sweden-based global headquarters for an iconic and historic home-furnishing brand, and in 2017 I started leading an in-depth research study into the way that people live around the world: the IKEA Life at Home Report. The report has since grown to become one of the largest and most distinctive research projects of its kind in the world. At the last count, more than 37,000 people in thirty-eight countries were involved in it.

As I quickly started to learn, this sort of research is a lively blend of data, insights and poetic world-building. As well as your eyes and ears, you have to come at it with your heart and guts. I can still picture the room I was in when a wide-ranging conversation with Professor Alison Blunt, the founding co-director of the Centre for Studies of Home, landed on the ideal qualities of a home. My team and I were interviewing her as part of an expert review of the research for the 2018 report, and she was – without doubt – one of the most generous thinkers on the topic of homemaking I’ve had the opportunity to meet. ‘When thinking about the ideals of home, at the core are comfort, security, a sense of autonomy and ownership, and the capacity for privacy. But again, each of those can be challenged; they can be non-existent even in the context of the home.’ She took a moment, before elaborating: ‘Home at its core goes back to a sense of belonging; a sense of belonging personally and belonging collectively.’

You could feel the charge of electricity between us all as the collective light bulb went on. I’m slightly ashamed to admit that, until that moment, I didn’t think I had permission to talk about home in such an emotional way, as if the temperament of homemaking was too fluffy for research or I’d fog up the insights with all my womanly feels. I was expecting her to talk about room size or lighting or something else entirely functional that you can quantify and optimize, because anything ‘ideal’ always seems to have a number next to it. It was like she cracked open the chest cavity of home in that room and pulled out the warm and bloody emotional needs that are the beating heart of its existence. It took a whole-hearted person to help us see that this fistful of pulsing emotions are what people mean when they talk about the ‘feeling of home’. I could immediately see what kind of game-changer this was going to be.

From that point on, everything started with a simple, open question:

What does home feel like?

I’ve asked it countless times now, and what I have heard and learned in response has changed my life. Over the coming chapters, we’ll explore together what home feels like, but I want to start by telling you this: one in three people globally say they feel more at home in places other than where they live. When I heard that data-point for the first time, I shuddered at the thought of just how many people around the world feel sad, lonely, anxious, insecure or generally out of place in their own home – their own home! Then came a curdling feeling in my stomach, like a memory gone sour, when I realized that I have been that one in three more times than I care to remember.

What this book will demonstrate is that all of us have the opportunity to feel at home where we live – no matter the space and place we occupy, or the people and things we have around us. It’s an opportunity that transcends the trends, norms and stipulations that come with different cultures, identities and backgrounds, whether you live in a single studio apartment with tatami mats in Tokyo, a concrete social-housing estate in Berlin or a Tudorbethan mansion in Essex. Sure, you’ll always find some curious variations between countries and regions when it comes to home habits and attitudes – like, the country that’s most likely to stay on top of household chores (Hungary), the one that prioritizes sleep as a way to relax (Finland), and the one that gets the most joy from watching their pets sleep (America) – but I often find that whilst we’re giggling at different national caricatures, we’re distracted from what’s going on at a deeper level. The simple fact of the matter is that 8 billion people are all reaching for the same thing – to feel at home.

To view your own life through the lens of a research study can reveal many things if you are ready to see them. Not least the tell-tale signs of people, just like you, quietly living in spaces and places that might meet their functional needs but fail to meet their emotional ones. As the research progresses each year, wherever the team goes and whoever we meet, we always come back to the same clutch of profound feelings that people talk about time and again when we ask about their home. They talk about comfort and security; about connection and belonging. They talk about the give and take that passes between people and place, in which our entire sense of self takes root. In the early days, I would often joke that our research pursuit was as complex as trying to find out what love feels like, until it stopped feeling like a joke. Perhaps my own reckoning was inevitable, through the unpacking of the literal and metaphorical baggage that accompanied me to Scandinavia. The truth of the matter was there all along: the feeling of home is the feeling of love.

The hard truth is that homes have been failing us for years, chipping away at our existence by doing just enough but never more. I know what this looks like from the research, and I know what this feels like from experience. I can’t help but think that you, too, know what this feels like. We’re so habituated to this kind of living, we’ve stopped expecting better. We twist our needs and expectations to fit whatever space we’re in, no matter how miserable it makes us, and try to get on with life. If a friend confided in you that their partner made them feel that way, you would tell them to end the relationship. Immediately.

This realization has led to my complete reappraisal of the notion of home and the role it has played in my life. Turning the question about what home feels like on myself forced a necessary, if painful, re-evaluation of all the homes I have lived in so far. Once I’d started, I couldn’t stop this imaginary road trip. I was fired up with insights that pulsed through my core memories of homemaking, like I’d become fluent in a new language. And then two enormous events occurred in my life at the same time: I became a mother as the world dropped to its knees with Covid-19. My life at home was just about braced for the impact of a baby, but there was nothing in the parenting manuals about how to prepare for a pandemic. It suddenly became abundantly clear that our 90-square-metre apartment would be weathering an almighty storm.

As the weeks trudged by under national lockdown in Denmark, my home seemed to oscillate between a sanctuary and a prison. It was the safest place to be, but I was also its captive. During those crushingly weary night feeds, as my daughter guzzled at my breast before dawn, I felt like someone was tipping sand over me and that I might suffocate. I developed a clawing need to run out of the apartment, down the road and into green space and air and light and community. I longed to go for a coffee at my local cafe, rummage through bric-a-brac at the charity shop, or hug a friend and weep with that delirious mix of shattering love and exhaustion that accompanies early motherhood. And yet, after every daily constitutional, when my husband and I wheeled our screaming baby around the same empty neighbourhood for an hour, there was nothing more soothing than opening our front door and feeling the warm embrace of home.

I know from the research we conducted that year that I was not alone in those feelings. Four in five people said they felt their home was their sanctuary during that first year of the pandemic – but that still left one in five who didn’t feel that way. We also saw that people who made changes to their home to better meet their needs were more likely to say they had improved mental health and well-being than those who didn’t. At the heart of these insights, and many more besides, is a persistent gap between the emotional needs we believe it’s important for our homes to fulfil and the reality of whether we get them where we live. It’s this distance between what many of us expect and what we actually have at home – something I call the ‘emotional gap’ – that holds countless untold stories about lives that are deserving of so much more. Like the people who rent a room in a house-share, for example, who are the most likely to say that they don’t get any of their emotional needs met at home; or parents with young kids, who are the most likely to say they don’t feel a sense of belonging where they live. Above all, when your relationship with home doesn’t feel great – when your health and well-being is taking a hit and you just don’t feel like yourself – it’s almost impossible to thrive in any other area of your life.

Myriad stories and over ten years of research have given me an extraordinary front-row seat to life at home around the world and what makes it feel better. It’s how my team and I at IKEA have come to name eight universal emotional needs that when fulfilled in combination create what we all call the ‘feeling of home’: Comfort, Control, Security, Accomplishment, Belonging, Nurturing, Joy and Aspiration. Knowing more about these emotional needs gives us the power and potential to transform our relationship with home. And when our life at home improves, it creates the preconditions for positive change in the rest of our life, too.

Perhaps – if we’re honest – there’s been a bit of a collective blind spot when it comes to acknowledging the enormous potential of the home. I can’t quite shake the feeling that there’s a long-standing bias against things that feel inherently ‘domestic’ or ‘feminine’ unless it can generate money or someone invents an app for it. But when we do the work to redefine our home from being a static place where we live to a dynamic place that we love, we have the chance to release endless goodness into our daily lives. There’s no app for that.

If the language of home is twinned with love, then maybe we can find our way to happiness and harmony in much the same way we would with our romantic and life partners – by sharing, showing and taking care, being authentic, brave and vulnerable, having fun and exploring life together. Just talking about it this way already puts us in a completely different headspace when we think about home, right? So, what might happen if we approach our home life with as much purpose and intention as we approach our love life? I hope to help answer this question in the following chapters, by expanding on each of the eight emotional needs through the research and my own lived experience. Most importantly, I will provide plenty of guidance, encouragement and practical ideas for how to get your needs met where they are unfulfilled. Exploring the emotional needs in this sequential way will help you build the capacity and capabilities for deep and impactful solutions in your own life at home.

Truth be told, we’ve been stuffed full with the commercialization of home for so long – from unelected tastemakers telling us what the colour of the year is to seasonal promotions for kitchens or bedrooms or mudrooms we believe we need to install at once to stay ‘on-trend’. I think it’s time for a reset. I want to get back to basics and propose solutions that might use our hands but always come from the heart. Doing it this way means you’ll be able to find ideas and opportunities within yourself, no matter where you live or what practical challenges exist in your home today. This all goes to say that there are plenty of gorgeous and well-written books which will help you find the right feng shui for your studio apartment or colourway for your dream hallway when that’s what you need. I have those kinds of books, too, but this book isn’t one of them. This book is about building and maintaining an emotional connection with your home so that you can live vibrantly there and beyond.

As the psychotherapist Esther Perel says, ‘The quality of our relationships determines the quality of our lives.’ Nowhere is this more apparent than the relationship we have with home.

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