The morning light hit differently. It always does when you’re starting somewhere new — or when your old place simply didn’t get any sun. Boxes half-unpacked, Arlo circling the living room as if mapping out his own floor plan, and me standing in the middle of it all — somewhere between excitement and mild panic.
When people ask how long I’ve been in LA, I never quite know how to answer. After college, I bounced between the city, family up north, and last-minute travels that often turned into extended stays. Imperceptibly, LA became home — from late-night study sessions turned adventures in Westwood, to overpriced lunch breaks in Beverly Hills on a thin assistant payroll, to chasing movie dreams on the Disney lot, and sunset beach walks in equal parts gratitude and existential crisis as an entrepreuer.
Moving from Taipei to the States at fourteen, I learned early that change can be grounding in its own way. A form of self-discovery. Each home has reflected a different version of myself — different dreams, different rhythms, different relationships, different growth. Every space teaches you something: that living on a main street isn’t ideal, that parking actually does matter, and that natural light might just be the ultimate non-negotiable.
Apartment hunting is both intuition and intention. You make lists, set budgets, and still end up choosing based on a feeling. I’ve learned that when something feels aligned, it usually is. So when I found my new Silver Lake apartment (thanks to a super resourceful and perfectly timed friend), it felt right immediately: sunlight streaming in, soft airflow through the windows, a view up the hills, and the undeniable sense that it just felt like home.
Leaving my Mar Vista home was bittersweet. It was my comfort zone — familiar, easy — but I was ready to expand. More nature, more privacy, more light, and a new perspective. This move also mirrors a new season in my work — building something from the ground up, (mostly) one thoughtful decision at a time.
This marks the beginning of a series on growth — both internal and spatial. It’s about how the environments we create mirror who we’re becoming. Each post traces the process of turning a blank canvas into something that feels uniquely mine — through design, furniture, and the everyday rituals that make a space feel like home.
My new 800-square-foot, two-story rental in Silver Lake has already taught me something simple but true: creativity tends to reveal itself in constraint. There’s no obvious dining space, which leaves me torn between wanting a bigger couch or a proper table. So this first entry is about finding balance — layering warmth, flow, and intention into spaces that quietly invite possibility.
Built in the 1920s, my building carries a quiet kind of charm — historic but imperfect. It’s been partly remodeled, leaving a blend of old bones and newer touches, which means some details don’t quite match how we live today. There’s no full closet. No defined dining area. And, according to everyone I know, having a table is important.
But small spaces invite creativity. Should I downsize my couch and add a long table by the window? Or tuck a round one near the staircase for morning tea and late-night wine? The flexibility makes it both freeing and slightly paralyzing — so when indecision hits, I turn to inspiration.
x When in doubt, go small. Scale is everything; a petite table keeps a room feeling open and fluid.
x Round tables work wonders. They soften corners and create a natural flow for conversation.
x Mix and match. Different chairs, finishes, and colors add depth and a lived-in warmth.
x Play with color. Steel, ochre, deep blue, warm brown, and mustard bring personality to neutral spaces.
x Light defines space. A single pendant instantly creates a “zone” and adds sculptural dimension.
x Lean, don’t float. Let the table rest flush against a wall — straight lines extend the space instead of cutting it off.
x Keep it simple. Save décor moments for your entryway or coffee table. Let the dining area breathe.
Older apartments teach patience. You can’t rush a space into revealing what it wants to be. Sometimes you have to live in it first — trace how the air moves through in the morning, where the afternoon sun hits just right for a nap (oh how I love them), or where your eyes keep landing for a piece of art.
For now, the dining nook marks the first page of that story: a corner for creativity, connection, and new beginnings. Even if I keep wondering whether having no dining nook might actually be the better approach, it still feels like a journey worth taking.
More to come soon.
Curated finds, deals & reads —
because your attention is the only currency that matters.
Curated finds, deals & reads — because your attention is the only currency that matters.
