There’s something special about the way people invite me into their spaces. Over the years, since entering adulthood, friends, cousins, strangers, hookups, and lovers – each has welcomed me into their houses, condos, apartments, even the occasional cabin, with this open warmth that holds a tad bit of wonder. And I get it; there’s pride there, real, unrestrained joy in showing off their worlds. Some have given me the full tour, down to the last bookend keeping On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous from falling onto the carpet purchased from a Persian shopkeeper in Stellenbosch, or the stray trinket found on a drunken night in Jackson Hole, spinning stories of where they found this or that, the memories tied to souvenirs, the art on their walls, that out-of-place throw blanket they swear they found in a Parisian flea market.

And then, almost invariably, we get to the room that makes them light up the most: their home office. With a certain reverence, they say, “this is where I work.” The desk and the chair are ceremoniously shown off, ergonomic in all the right places, with back cushions tailored to hold up shoulders worn out from hours of typing. There are fancy gadgets to hold their screens at the perfect angle, maybe a few plants to offset the glow of screens, an exercise ball they bounce on when the chair’s too much. And as they show me around, they’re genuinely proud. Happy, even.

It’s in these moments I find myself hesitating, smiling politely, but inwardly a little lost. Just how much must someone love work to build a whole room for it? Not just a quiet corner or an empty table to scribble notes on, but a dedicated space, a shrine almost, to daily labor. For me, the kitchen table has always been enough. The corner of a counter, a laptop, maybe a mug of tea, and I’m good to go. The thought of putting four walls around my work-life makes my breath catch in a way that’s not exactly comforting. It’s like caging a part of myself I’d rather let roam.

My mind always goes to Baldwin. Like him, I don’t dream of labor. Sure, I’ve worked hard in my life, put in long hours and deep energy into things that matter to me. But a room for work? A dedicated place in the home where the soul’s supposed to rest and breathe, a space for emails and Zoom calls and project boards? Somehow, I can’t wrap my mind around it. And what confounds me even more is that often, the people giving me these tours – the ones beaming over their desk setup, their corkboard of deadlines, and the precisely chosen lumbar support pillow – are the very same ones who’ve sat across from me, half a bottle of wine or bourbon in, lamenting work culture and how they just want to be free of it.

If we’re so fed up with work, why does it get a whole room?

I’ll admit, sometimes it makes me sad. Not just because they’ve turned a part of their home into an extension of a job they don’t even particularly love but because of the alternative spaces that could’ve taken its place. Imagine opening a door, and instead of a desk and swivel chair, there’s a room washed in soft light, a place designed solely for meditation. There’s a thick, woven rug on the floor, maybe a singing bowl, a low hum of incense in the air, a place made for quiet. “This is my peace room,” they’d say, and I’d look around and think, yes, now that’s beautiful.

Or it could be a room for art, for play, a space just for them, far away from email threads and Zoom calls. A room filled with paints and pencils and paper, piles of half-finished sketches, stacks of coloring books, and dandelions and golden pothos hanging from the ceiling. I want to see them proudly show me a corner where they’ve strung up a hammock or made space for an indoor adult jungle gym, complete with a rope swing. “This is where I come to be free,” they’d say, and I’d feel their happiness. Or maybe, instead of a sleek office chair, they’d show me an old, comforting sewing machine, one handed down from their grandmother, with fabric scraps strewn across the floor in chaotic beauty.

But instead, what they often end up sharing is a roller mouse that’s gentle on their wrist, or the standing desk that rises with the push of a button they found on sale. They’ve meticulously designed this room to minimize strain while maximizing efficiency, but I can’t help but wonder what it’s all for. “Are we bringing our souls home? Or just our work?”

And maybe this thought comes from spending time with my writing students, many who tell me they have office spaces at home – rooms perfectly arranged to get things done – if only they could get past their blocks. They tell me they haven’t written anything in years. Somewhere along the way, work stopped being a place for play or expression, and they drifted from the part of themselves that loved to create. Sometimes, I take them outside, sit them down in the sun, or toss them a kickball, a hula hoop, or give them a boost to climb the tree, and let them reconnect with what it feels like to play. To let their minds run wild, to tap into that raw, childlike energy that doesn’t know cubicles or deadlines. And after a while, after they’ve let themselves feel that thrill again, creativity rushes in, like air to starving lungs, and the tears flow out. They remember what it’s like to bring their joy home.

I wish this for those who proudly show me their home offices, for anyone who feels the need to build walls around their labor. Because a home should be a place of welcome, a sanctuary that cradles and holds us just as we are, without expectations or deadlines.

So if you do happen to invite me over and give me a tour, and if one of those doors leads to an office, a place dedicated to the grind, then I’m going to politely request we skip it. Show me instead the room where you come alive. Show me where you play, where you dream, where you just be. Show me the side of you that’s wild and free, the one that hasn’t lost touch with wonder, the side that belongs to no job or obligation. That’s the room I want to see.