Latest / Style Edit: Fashion, beauty & personal style / The Art of Being Alone Together: Designing Spaces for Solitude & Connection | Style Edit
Transcript
- You know that feeling when you walk into a room and immediately want to hide in the bathroom? Not because you’re shy, but because the space demands something from you it can’t quite give. Let’s be real for a second. We spend so much time curating our wardrobes, don’t we? We obsess over the drape of a silk blouse or the perfect cut of a trench coat. We think about how the fabric feels against our skin, how it makes us stand taller, how it whispers confidence before we even speak. But lately, I’ve been thinking about the other layer we wear. The one that surrounds us every single day. Our spaces. And honestly? Most of them are exhausting. I walked into a friend’s apartment last week, and she had this incredible open-concept living area. It was all marble and glass, sleek and modern and absolutely freezing. There were no corners. No soft edges. No place for your eyes to rest. She told me she loved it because it felt 'airy' and 'connected.' But as I sat there, trying to read a book, I felt like I was on display. Every shadow was visible. Every movement was exposed. I didn’t feel connected; I felt performative. I wanted a nook. I wanted a wall. I wanted to disappear for five minutes without leaving the house. Does it feel like you? Do you come home and immediately feel the need to recharge, not just because you’re tired, but because your environment has drained you? We treat our homes like showrooms sometimes. We buy furniture that looks good in photos but doesn’t support the way we actually live. We prioritize connection at all costs—the big dinner parties, the open floor plans that invite everyone in—while forgetting that solitude is the fuel that makes connection possible. You cannot pour from an empty cup, and you certainly cannot connect deeply with others if you haven’t first connected with yourself in quiet. There is a trend in interior design, especially in urban apartments, that insists more openness equals more freedom. And sure, visually, it’s beautiful. It lets the light in. It makes small spaces feel larger. But functionally? It often destroys our ability to focus and to feel safe. Think about the last time you tried to have a serious conversation or just breathe deeply in a completely open room. How hard was it? Our brains crave boundaries. They crave definition. When everything is visible, our subconscious stays on high alert. We are scanning for threats, for distractions, for judgment. This is why some of the most cozy, inviting places I’ve ever visited are the ones with low ceilings, heavy drapes, and distinct zones. A library feels different than a ballroom. A kitchen island feels different than a grand dining hall. One invites intimacy; the other invites performance. I remember working at that magazine, back in the day. The office was this massive, industrial loft. Exposed brick, concrete floors, zero privacy. We had 'quiet hours,' which was a joke because the acoustics were designed for echo, not silence. I would sit in the bathroom stall during my lunch break just to get away from the hum of twenty people typing. It wasn’t healthy, obviously. But it told me something important: I needed a container for my thoughts. Without that container, my ideas scattered. My energy leaked out. When we design our lives—and by extension, our spaces—we often forget that solitude isn’t loneliness. Loneliness is wanting connection and not having it. Solitude is choosing to be with yourself to replenish your spirit. If your space doesn’t accommodate solitude, it doesn’t accommodate you. It accommodates an idea of you. And that’s a very expensive mistake to make. So, how do we fix this? How do we create spaces that hold both the wild, messy joy of connection and the deep, sacred need for solitude? It starts with curation. Just like I tell you to curate your closet, you must curate your rooms. You don’t need to renovate. You don’t need to knock down walls. You just need to intentionality. Start by identifying your 'sanctuary spots.' For me, it’s always been a window seat. Even if it’s just two feet wide. I fill it with cushions, maybe a heavy wool throw, and I position it so I’m looking out, not at the TV. It becomes a bubble. When I sit there, the rest of the world blurs. It’s mine. It’s where I process my day, where I write, where I just exist. Does your home have a corner like that? If not, build one. Use a bookshelf as a partial divider. Hang a curtain. Place a large plant in a strategic spot to create visual separation. This is about creating micro-environments. You might have a bright, airy table for hosting friends—that’s your connection zone. And then you have a dimly lit armchair in a darker corner for reading—that’s your solitude zone. The shift in lighting, the change in texture, the slight change in elevation can signal to your brain that it’s time to switch modes. It’s subtle, but powerful. We respond to cues. If everything in your home signals 'social,' you will never feel truly alone in a good way. You’ll just feel constantly observed. Think about the tactile experience of these spaces. Solitude needs softness. Connection needs warmth. A velvet chair invites you to sink in and stay. A wooden table invites you to gather and share. Don’t mix them up. Put the velvet in the quiet corner. Put the wood in the center. Let the materials do the work for you. Style is just confidence wearing clothes, and space is just comfort wearing structure. We talk a lot about visuals, but what about sound? Sound is the invisible architecture of our homes. In that friend’s marble apartment, sound bounced off the surfaces. It created a constant, low-level anxiety. It felt sterile. But in my vintage studio here in Brooklyn, it’s different. We have old wooden floors that creak softly. We have rugs that absorb noise. We have curtains that dampen the city traffic outside. It’s not silent, but it’s textured. It sounds like life. For solitude, you want absorption. You want the space to hug your ears. Rugs, tapestries, upholstered furniture—they all help create a sonic cocoon. This is why libraries feel so calming. They are designed to hold your voice, not amplify it. If you’re trying to create a solitude corner, look at the acoustics. Add soft fabrics. Close the blinds. Play white noise if you have to. Create a barrier against the chaos. Conversely, for connection, you want resonance. You want the space to carry laughter, conversation, music. Hard surfaces reflect sound, making voices seem louder and more vibrant. That’s why we love restaurants with high ceilings and hard floors, even though they’re noisy. The noise becomes part of the energy. But be careful. Too much resonance can lead to overstimulation. You want enough echo to feel alive, but not so much that you can’t hear your partner across the table. It’s about balance. It’s about designing for the human ear, not just the human eye. When you listen to your space, you’ll hear where it’s fighting you. You’ll hear where it’s supporting you. Trust that inner ear. It knows what you need before your mind does. Light is perhaps the most important tool we have for toggling between solitude and connection. Natural light is wonderful, but artificial light is where the magic happens. We tend to use overhead lights for everything. The big ceiling fixture. The harsh, uniform glow. It’s efficient, but it’s emotionally flat. It tells no story. For solitude, go warm and low. Dimmers are your best friend. Table lamps with shades that direct light downward create pools of illumination. They draw your eye in, narrowing your focus. It’s intimate. It’s safe. It says, 'Stay here. Rest here.' I love using amber-toned bulbs in the evening. They mimic sunset, triggering our bodies to wind down. It prepares us for sleep, for reflection, for the inner journey. For connection, go brighter and cooler. Or rather, layered and varied. Candelabras, pendant lights over tables, string lights that crisscross the room. You want light that reflects off faces, that highlights shared moments. You want the space to feel expansive. But again, avoid the overhead glare. Use multiple sources. A lamp on the left, a lamp on the right, a candle in the center. This creates depth. It creates drama. It makes the act of gathering feel special, intentional. Think about how you feel under different lighting. Do you feel exposed under bright white light? Do you feel hidden under dim yellow light? Your body knows. Listen to it. Design your lighting scheme around these emotional responses. Don’t just follow trends. Follow your feelings. If a room feels too cold, add warmth. If it feels too chaotic, add calm. Adjust until it feels like you. Ultimately, designing for solitude and connection isn’t about rigid rules. It’s about flexibility. Life ebbs and flows. Some days, you need to host ten people. Other days, you need to host zero. Your space should be able to handle both without breaking a sweat. This means movable furniture. Lightweight pieces. Rugs that define areas without locking them in. Screens that can block views when needed. I encourage you to play with your layout. Move the sofa. Swap the chairs. Change the art. Make your space responsive to your mood. When you’re feeling social, push the furniture together, clear the tables, turn up the music. When you’re feeling solitary, pull the chair to the window, dim the lights, close the door. Give yourself permission to shift the atmosphere. This adaptability is a form of self-care. It acknowledges that you are not static. You are a complex creature who needs both community and isolation to thrive. By creating spaces that honor both, you are honoring yourself. You are saying, 'I matter. My peace matters. My joy matters.' Don’t let anyone tell you that your home must be one thing. It can be a sanctuary and a salon. It can be a retreat and a stage. The key is to design with awareness. To pay attention to how each corner makes you feel. To choose textures, sounds, and lights that serve your humanity, not just your aesthetic. Because style is just confidence wearing clothes, and home is just peace wearing walls. Make sure yours fits. I hope you find your quiet corner today. Maybe it’s a chair by the window, or just a moment of silence before the phone rings. Claim it. Enjoy it. You’ve earned it. I’ll see you next time. Bye for now.