I've always been obsessed with doors. Every time I travel, I'm taking pictures of them, and my camera roll is full of them. I can't help imagining the rooms behind each one.
Color psychology has a lot to say about what our choices reveal, and I think front doors are where it gets fun. Here's what I see.
The charcoal door. Quiet. All that carved stone around it, and the door just stands there, calm and certain. It doesn't need to shout. This is a home that knows exactly who it is. No need to be flashy or draw attention. There's something sturdy and grounding about that.
The red door. Warmth, with a little nervous energy. Red has always meant welcome, but it takes courage to paint a door red. This is the house where someone's always cooking, the door is never locked, and there's a revolving door of friends and family. It's a collector of people.
The blue door. Pure joy. It decided life is too short for safe choices. But blue is also calm, a happy color you can still breathe in.
The weathered wood door. History. It isn't trying to be new. Every scratch is a chapter. It belongs to someone who values the past, their roots, and things built to last.
None of these doors is right. That's the whole point. The best door isn't the one that's on trend this season. It's the one that tells the truth about who lives behind it.
Which brings me to my own.
We're building our home from the ground up right now, and I'll admit it: choosing our front door has been harder than I expected.
I'm leaning toward an arched steel-and-glass door in a warm, welcoming gray. Here's why. I love having people over, when I'm in the space for it. But for the most part, I'm a bit of a hermit. My home is my sanctuary, the place where I shut out the world, and where the people I live with can shut it out too. Calm, safe, strong. That's what I want my door to say.
So the glass is smart glass. With the touch of a button it turns frosted and private. Touch it again and it goes clear, open all the way through the entry and into the great room. Open when I want to welcome you in, closed when I need my sanctuary. Honestly, that's me in a door.
Your turn. Go stand at your front door and ask yourself: is this the first sentence of my story? Is it telling the truth about me? Is it the one I'd choose?
If not, sometimes a gallon of paint and new hardware can rewrite the whole story!
— Aubs
