I did not wake up one morning and decide that my home would be filled with wooden things, and I certainly did not plan a design direction or set an intention to surround myself with a specific material, but recently I caught myself standing in the middle of the room, looking around, and realizing that wood had quietly taken over without ever asking for permission.
The shelf near the window is wood, the cookbook stand by the stove is wood, the small countdown house on the console is wood, the hooks by the door began as a fallen branch, and even the little accents I reach for without thinking seem to carry grain, texture, and warmth rather than shine or polish.
I remember smiling to myself in that moment, half amused and half surprised, and thinking that I must have become some kind of artist without noticing, which made me laugh out loud because it felt both dramatic and completely untrue at the same time.
What felt true, though, was that this happened slowly, almost invisibly, the way habits form when they suit you too well to question.
I Never Chose Wood, It Just Stayed
I cannot point to a single moment when I decided that wood would matter to me this much, because I did not choose it deliberately, but when I look back, I can see that other materials slowly fell away while wood remained.
Plastic cracked or felt temporary in my hands, metal felt cold and a little distant, glass felt fragile in a way that made me cautious rather than comfortable, but wood aged in a way that felt forgiving, picking up marks and dents without losing its character.
Living in a rental probably shaped this more than I realized at the time, because wood does not argue with imperfect walls or uneven floors, and it never demands that a space be flawless before it belongs there.
Wood adapts quietly, settles into corners, and feels finished even when everything else feels in progress, which is exactly how my life has felt for a long time now.
The Black Cat That Interrupted My Workday
Yesterday, in the middle of working, I noticed a dark shape in my peripheral vision, and when I looked up, I saw the black wooden cat hanging on the wall near my desk, sitting there so calmly that it felt like it had always been part of the room.
I had hung it earlier without thinking much about it, treating it like just another object finding its place, but seeing it again in that quiet moment made me stop typing and lean back in my chair.
The cat is simple in the best way, flat wood painted matte black, with a clean outline, a slightly curved tail, and a posture that feels alert without being tense, as if it is watching the room rather than demanding attention from it.
There are no details trying to impress you, just enough shape to suggest personality, which is probably why it has followed me from place to place without ever feeling outdated.
And suddenly, without warning, I remembered exactly where it came from.
Jen, University Life, and Halloween as a Small Ritual
The black cat was a gift from Jen, my best friend during university, and she gave it to me last Halloween, back when life still felt like a series of shared routines rather than individual paths.
At our university, Halloween was not only about costumes or parties, but about something quieter that existed among friends, a kind of unspoken tradition of giving small gifts that were not meant to impress, only to acknowledge that you knew someone well enough to choose something just for them.
Sometimes the gifts were candy, sometimes handmade notes, sometimes strange little objects that made sense only to the person receiving them, and Jen was always especially good at this, because she paid attention in a way that felt natural rather than effortful.
When she handed me the gift, she laughed before I even opened it, the kind of laugh that suggested confidence, as if she already knew it would land exactly where it needed to.
Why a Black Cat Made Sense, Even If I Didn’t See It at First
When I opened the package and saw the black wooden cat, I remember tilting my head slightly, trying to understand her choice, because I liked cats but I was not someone who talked about them constantly or built my personality around them. Jen just smiled and said, “This is you,” in a way that made it feel obvious to her even if it was not to me yet.
Later, she explained that she chose it because black cats carry contradictions, misunderstood by some, protective in others, quiet but observant, independent without being distant, and somehow steady even when surrounded by superstition or noise.
She said it reminded her of how I worked, how I stayed late, noticed details, and remained calm when situations felt uncertain or unfinished.
I laughed at the time, but I kept the cat.
How It Became Part of My Home Without Asking
When I moved after university, the cat came with me, wrapped carefully so the thin wooden edges would not break, and for a while it lived in a drawer, then on a shelf, then leaned against other things as homes shifted and life moved forward.
It was never the main piece in any room, but it was never thrown away either, which feels important now that I think about it.
Hanging it near my desk happened almost without thought, as if my hands already knew where it belonged before my mind caught up.
Now it sits there quietly, watching over my workspace, not distracting me, not demanding anything, simply present in a way that feels familiar and grounding.
Realizing Wood Is Holding My Memories
Looking at that black cat made something click that I had not articulated before, which is that many of the wooden pieces in my home are not just DIY projects or design choices, but carriers of memory.
Each one holds a moment, a season, a feeling, or a person in a way that feels different from other materials, because wood changes gently over time rather than staying frozen in its original state.
The cat is not just a Halloween decoration, but a reminder of late-night studying, shared snacks, borrowed notes, quiet encouragement, and that strange comfort of friendship when you are still becoming yourself.
Why This Feels Like Who I Am Now
Maybe that is why my home has slowly filled with wood without me noticing, because I am less interested in perfection and more interested in things that feel lived with, collected, and honest.
I do not need my space to impress anyone, but I do want it to reflect how I move through the world, thoughtfully, quietly, and with attention to small details that matter over time.
