What Preparing Two Rooms Taught Me About What "Feels Like Home" Actually Means

Four years.

That's how long we waited. Four years of paperwork, uncertainty, pauses that felt like endings, and quiet hope that refused to disappear. And then one day, the call came. We had been chosen. Two kids. Not a hypothetical anymore. Not a "maybe someday." Them.

We received their full file. Pages of history, behaviours, diagnoses, reports from professionals. Autism. ADHD. Emotional regulation challenges. Difficult transitions. Patterns that would make most people pause.

And we did pause.

Not because we didn't want them. Because this wasn't about wanting. It was about understanding what their life would actually look like, and whether we could show up for that.

So we read everything. Not just the challenges, but the progress. The small wins. The moments where things worked. The signs that, with the right environment, these kids could stabilize and grow.

That's what made the difference. And that's when we said yes.

We thought we had time

The moment you have to face your garage mess to make space!

The plan was gradual. A transition stretched over months, leading into summer. They weren't toddlers. They were old enough to have opinions, preferences, identities already forming.

So in my head, the process was clear. We would meet them. We would get to know them. We would ask: what do you want your room to feel like?

And then I would design from there.

That's how I've always worked. Not just as a designer, but as a person. I don't impose. I translate. I take what someone gives me, even if it's vague, and I shape it into something that makes sense for them.

My husband and I had talked about this a lot. These kids had probably never had something that was truly theirs. So involving them felt important, not just practically but symbolically. We wanted them to feel the room being built around them, to be part of the decisions, to point at something and say "I chose that." We thought that sense of authorship might be its own kind of belonging.

So I was genuinely looking forward to that part. It felt like the right way to start.

But then we were told something that changed everything.

Their rooms needed to be ready before they were told about us.

So that when they heard the news, they could see it. Not just hear "you have a new home," but walk into a space and feel: there is a place for me here.

Suddenly, this wasn't about collaboration. It was about anticipation.

I had to make decisions without knowing them. Interpret without feedback. Create something that felt personal without a relationship yet. And more than anything, I had to make sure that when they walked into those rooms for the first time, nothing felt random or generic.

It didn't need to be perfect. But it needed to feel intentional. Like someone had thought about them before even meeting them.

Designing for kids I didn't know

What I had instead of conversations were secondhand answers. The guardianship worker asked them what they wanted, and I received a list of requests.

On paper, they looked simple. But I knew I couldn't take them literally.

With kids, and especially with neurodivergent kids, what they ask for is often not the real need. It's a way to express something they don't have the words for yet.

So the process became less about design and more about interpretation.

The neurodivergent lens changed every decision

Knowing that both kids have ADHD, and that one is on the autism spectrum, gave me a completely different framework.

I wasn't designing for preferences. I was designing for regulation.

That shifted everything.

ADHD often comes with overstimulation, difficulty focusing, and a constant search for engagement. Autism can mean sensitivity to texture, light, and noise, and a strong need for predictability and control. So when I looked at their requests, I filtered everything through that lens.

If they asked for something bold: is this energizing or overwhelming?

If they wanted multiple elements: will this create focus or chaos?

If they mentioned specific objects or features: is this about function, or about comfort and control?

I designed in layers.

The first layer was regulation. The room had to calm, not stimulate. That meant controlling visual noise, limiting clutter, being intentional about where colour sat and how much of it.

The second was predictability. Clear zones. Clear purpose. When you walk in, you immediately understand where things go and what happens where. This matters enormously for kids who struggle with transitions.

The third was control. They needed to feel ownership. Not full freedom from the start, but elements they could adjust. Lighting, small objects, areas that could evolve with them.

The fourth was connection. Even though the room was ready before they knew us, it couldn't feel generic. It had to feel like someone had thought about them specifically.

Here's what that looked like in practice.

The boy asked for an all-black room. I heard: I want somewhere that feels contained and mine. The response wasn't black walls. It was a deep green accent wall, a darker nook under a loft bed with a curtain he can close, and a climbing wall next to the bed because he loves movement. His Lego and kinetic sand have a dedicated table with drawers for ongoing projects, because a kid with ADHD needs to know exactly where things live and be able to leave work in progress without it disappearing. The room gives him control, retreat, and clear zones without tipping into something heavy or isolating.

[I'll go into the full thinking behind his room in a separate post. If you want to see how all of it came together, you can read more here ->]

The girl asked for pink and purple, a cozy enclosed feeling, and somewhere her stuffed animals could live. I heard: I want to feel held. Her bed sits inside a closet nook with curtains and soft layered fabrics. Her stuffies are displayed, not hidden, because honoring what matters to her was the connection layer. The room knowing her before she arrived. Her desk runs the full width under the window with visible supplies, because for a kid who self-regulates through creativity, accessible materials aren't clutter. They're a tool.

Both rooms prioritized open floor area over furniture size, because their current spaces showed scattered play patterns and they needed room to move. Storage is visible and accessible, not tucked away, because out of sight genuinely means out of mind for both of them.

Every element went through the same three questions: can they retreat? Can they play freely? Can they feel in control?

That's the filter. Not aesthetics. Not trends. What does this space need to do for the person who actually lives here?

My own story came into it too

I grew up in an environment where I had to adapt quickly and stay out of the way. I became independent early, but that also meant I didn't always feel held by my environment. So I've spent years building spaces that do the opposite. Spaces that support, not demand.

Designing these rooms brought that back in a very direct way.

What I understand now, more clearly than I did before: a home should support how you function first. Especially for neurodivergent kids, the environment is not just a backdrop. It actively affects behaviour, emotions, and the ability to regulate.

Your nervous system reads your home continuously, below conscious awareness, scanning for signals of safety or activation. When the space gives it the right cues, you settle. When it doesn't, you stay in low-level alert. Not dramatically. Just persistently, quietly, every day.

I already knew this professionally. But sitting with those two empty rooms, I felt it differently. Because these kids needed the room to do a specific job before anything else. Reduce the gap between who they are and what their environment asks of them.

That's what I kept coming back to.

So what does "feels like home" actually mean?

It's not style. It's not having everything figured out. It's not even comfort in the general sense.

It's a space that stops working against you and starts working for you.

These rooms aren't finished. They're not perfectly coordinated. But they're intentional. And they're ready for the kids to come in and make them their own.

That's what feels like home.