Open Door Policy

Growing up, our home was always full.

My family was small—just my parents, my sister, and me. But our home was always filled with people. My sister and I shared a room for most of our childhood, and both of our spare bedrooms were always occupied. From uncles to cousins, families to friends, someone was always living with us, weaving their stories into our home. And as a kid, I loved it. I loved the revolving door of people, the liveliness, the feeling that you could walk in and just be part of something bigger than yourself. And if you were to go and visit my parents home today—you’d discover that absolutely nothing has changed.

Now, as an adult, with a family of my own and a house we've turned into our home, I know exactly how I want this place to be.

Firstly, I want our home to have a big door.

One of those doors that swings wide open, practically begging people to walk through it. It’s the kind of door you’d assume someone would lock, but it never is. The kind of door that doesn’t make you feel like a guest but like you’ve always belonged there.

I never thought much about what it would look like, just that it would be big.

Big enough to say, “Yes, you’re in the right place—come on in.” Big enough to hold the comings and goings of all the people I’ve loved, all the memories we’ll make, all the life that’s bound to happen between these four walls.

Then there’s the sign. In bold, clear, and simple letters: ALL WELCOME.

Now, you’re probably thinking to yourself, “She can’t be serious,” but it’s exactly what I want my home to be. A space where everyone is welcome. A refuge for the tired, the joyful, the messy, the in-between. A place where you don’t have to knock, where you don’t have to be anything other than exactly who you are.

I want the kind of home where the door doesn’t shut behind you but stays open, inviting more people to flow into it. I picture it now: friends sitting on mismatched chairs, kids running around barefoot, someone asking, “Do you need anything?” without the expectation of a polite “no.”

It’s not about perfection. I know my home will never be one of those perfectly curated Instagram homes with white walls and minimalist vibes. No, this home will have lived-in couches, stacks of books we’ll never finish, and Blossom placemats keeping our table cozy. There will be crumbs in the kitchen, toys scattered on the floor, and board games that are well-used.

But there will also be laughter—the sound of people settling in, their shoulders relaxing as they realize they don’t have to pretend here.

I want my home to be the kind of place where people come to feel seen. The kind of home where someone can show up unannounced at 8 p.m. on a Tuesday, and there’s always a spot for them on the couch, even if it means squishing a little closer. I want a home where we pass the bread around the table, and there’s always enough for one more.

I’ve come to realize that home isn’t just a place. It’s a feeling. It’s that deep exhale you take when you know you’re safe, when you know you don’t have to explain yourself, when you know you’re welcome.

So, I might not have a big home…but the door will be big. And yes, I’m putting up that big sign. It will serve as a reminder for all of us—myself included—that this is a place where we show up as we are.

No pretense.

No perfection.

Just people, together.

Because maybe home isn’t really a place at all. Perhaps it’s not the walls or the couch or the sign on the door.

Perhaps it's the people who fill it.

It’s every single person who’s walked through that door, leaving a piece of themselves behind. The ones who show up, who lean in, who laugh too loud and stay too long. It’s every echo of laughter, every shared meal, every “see you soon” that turns into “stay awhile.” It’s the quiet knowing that you’re a part of something bigger, even when it’s not picture-perfect.

And as I look back on that house I grew up in—the one filled with my parents, my sister, and a rotating cast of friends, family, and people just passing through—I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because that’s where I learned it all. The doors always open, the couches never empty, the feeling that I belonged to something warm, something whole. That’s what I want to recreate, every day, in my own home.

So come in. Take your shoes off, or don’t. Help yourself to the fridge—you know where it is. Stay as long as you want. Because this home, this door—it’s open, and all are welcome.

Always.

Payton x