Why I Hate the Word ‘Cozy’
Look, I’m gonna say it: I hate the word ‘cozy.’ It’s overused. It’s bland. It’s the kind of word that makes me want to throw my tea cup at the wall. But here’s the thing—I can’t think of a better word to describe what I’ve tried to create in my home over the past seven years. So, fine. I’ll use it. But I’m not happy about it.
My journey to creating a home—no, a cozy space—I mean, a space that feels like me, has been a rollercoaster. I’ve lived in six places since I left university, and each one has taught me something new. But it wasn’t until I moved into my current flat in London that I finally started to understand what ‘home’ really means.
It started with a disaster. I moved in on a rainy Tuesday in October 2017. The landlord, let’s call him Marcus, had promised that the place would be ‘ready to go.’ It was not. The walls were bare, the floors were scuffed, and there was a mysterious stain on the ceiling that I’m still choosing to ignore. My best friend, Priya, came over to help me unpack. She took one look around and said, ‘This place is a dump, Leila.’
‘It’s not a dump,’ I said, trying to sound convincing. ‘It’s a blank canvas.’
‘A blank canvas that smells like wet dog,’ she replied, which honestly? Fair enough.
But here’s the thing about blank canvases—you get to paint them however you want. And that’s what I did. Slowly but surely, I filled the space with things that made me happy. A vintage rug from a market in Marrakech, a bookshelf I found on the side of the road, and a plant that I’ve somehow kept alive for 214 days (and counting).
The Art of Collecting Stuff (and the Guilt That Comes With It)
I’ve always been a collector. Not of stamps or coins or whatever it is that normal people collect. No, I collect experiences, trinkets, and a lot of unnecessary kitchen gadgets. My flat is filled with things that have stories behind them. That teapot? Bought in a fit of excitement during a trip to Istanbul. That weird sculpture? A gift from my cousin Sarah, who has questionable taste but a heart of gold.
But with collecting comes guilt. I’m not sure why, but I feel this weird sense of shame when I look at all my stuff. Like, why do I need 18 mugs? Who am I, some kind of mug connoisseur? And don’t even get me started on the guilt I feel when I think about the environmental impact of all this stuff. I read an article last week about the aquisition of fast fashion and I felt physicaly ill. But then I look at my shelves filled with books, my walls adorned with art, and I think, ‘Well, it’s too late now.’
I talked to my colleague named Dave about this. He’s a minimalist, which is basically my worst nightmare. ‘You know, Leila,’ he said over coffee at the place on 5th, ‘you don’t need all this stuff to be happy.’
‘Says the man who owns three pairs of pants,’ I replied. ‘Look, Dave, I’m not saying I need all this stuff. But it makes me happy. And isn’t that what life is about?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess. But have you considered sleep improvement tips quality rest? Maybe that’s all you need.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Dave, you’re impossible.’
A Home is a Work in Progress
Here’s the thing about homes—they’re never really finished. You can paint the walls, buy the furniture, hang the art, but it’s always a work in progress. And that’s okay. In fact, it’s more than okay. It’s what makes a home, well, a home.
Take my kitchen, for example. It’s a mess. A beautiful, chaotic mess. There are spices from every country I’ve ever visited, a coffee maker that’s seen better days, and a fridge covered in photos and notes. It’s not Pinterest-perfect, but it’s mine. And I love it.
I remember when my mum came to visit last year. She walked into the kitchen and gasped. ‘Leila, what is this?’ she asked, gesturing at the chaos. ‘It’s a kitchen,’ I said. ‘A very lived-in kitchen,’ she replied, which I took as a compliment.
But it’s not just about the physical stuff. It’s about the memories, the laughter, the late-night conversations. It’s about the times when my friends and I have cooked together, spilled wine on the floor, and danced to terrible music. It’s about the sense of committment I feel to this space, even with all its flaws.
And that’s what makes a home. It’s not about the perfect decor or the latest trends. It’s about the love, the mess, and the memories. It’s about the way your heart skips a beat when you walk in the door because you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
On a Tangent: The Great Plant Debacle of 2019
I can’t write about my home without mentioning the Great Plant Debacle of 2019. You see, I decided that I was going to become a plant lady. I bought 12 plants in one go, convinced that I had a green thumb. Spoiler alert: I do not.
Within a month, half of them were dead. My flatmate at the time, Emma, took one look at the carnage and said, ‘Leila, what have you done?’ I shrugged. ‘I tried,’ I said. ‘And that’s what matters, right?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re impossible.’
But here’s the thing—I learned from my mistakes. I researched, I asked for advice, and I slowly but surely became a better plant parent. And now? Now I have a thriving collection of plants that make my home feel alive. Well, most of them are alive. There’s still that one cactus that’s giving me trouble.
But that’s the thing about life, isn’t it? You make mistakes, you learn, you grow. And your home? It grows with you.
So, yeah. That’s my home. It’s messy, it’s imperfect, and it’s completely, utterly mine. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Except for the cactus. I’m still working on that.
About the Author
Leila Khan is a senior magazine editor with more than 20 years of experience. She’s written for major publications, traveled to more countries than she can count, and has a slight obsession with collecting mugs. She lives in London with her plants, her books, and her questionable taste in music. You can find her on Twitter @LeilaWrites, where she shares her thoughts on life, home, and the occasional cactus.
