on being a homebody.
or, being an innie in an outies world.
Pretty sure i am, without a doubt, the most boring person in all the land.
But here’s the thing—i never start off saying no. My first gut reaction? Hard pass. But then i get this gnawing feeling, like maybe i’m missing out. So i say yes. And then i regret it almost immediately. Every. Single. Time.
Group dinner? Sure, sounds fun — until the second i hit reply. Suddenly, i’m spinning out. Why did i agree to this? Can i fake food poisoning? Will they believe me if i say my cat is sick, even though i don’t have a cat?
The truth is, staying home feels like a warm, oversized sweater around my squishy heart. It’s comfort without effort, peace without pretending.
My old gnarly Cotswolds cottage isn’t particularly Pinterest-worthy but it’s home. The rented magnolia walls (slowly working on erasing those), the sunlight shifting throughout the day (bonus points when it catches the disco ball), the silence of the fields outside — it’s familiar, and that familiarity wraps around me like a hug i didn’t know i needed.
This house doesn’t ask anything from me — it just exists, all steady and quiet. It’s the one place where i never have to perform. It’s safe, and it locks out all the bad (when i remember to lock the door at night, that’s a whole other confession).
Still, whenever someone invites me out — dinner, cinema, even a low-stakes coffee hang — i say yes, but then the thought of getting dressed, leaving my cosy space, and socialising feels like so. much. effort.
And don’t get me started on spontaneity, the level of indecision i possess at short notice verges on hilarious.
It’s not that i dislike people, i crave connection so badly. But as an over thinker, i can’t shut off the anxiety of feeling socially awkward. There’s this unspoken rule that you must be loud, busy, and dressed to impress, or you’re doing life wrong. It’s like we’re all stuck in a reality show we didn’t audition for. And to be honest, it’s intimidating.
Maybe i’m a little broken. Or maybe i’m just awake enough to realise what i need to make me feel good. When i stay at home, i can exhale. i can exist without apologising for not wanting to drink alcohol, for being too shy to get up and dance, for it being too busy, too loud, too much.
Funny thing, though — people sometimes mistake me for an extrovert. It’s a performance i’ve perfected after years of working in advertising agencies. i blend in, and become the sassiest version of myself, a version that’s easier for people to like. It’s a mask — one i’m really good at wearing. But that version of me isn’t the whole truth. It’s just the palatable, socially-friendly version. The real me? She’s tired and invariably wants to go home.
The only exception? A walk in nature. Nature’s the one place that doesn’t feel like it’s demanding something from anyone. Trees don’t judge. They’re just there — strong, steady, growing quietly. Sometimes they whisper to each other.
i get why people like going out. i really do. The laughter, the buzz, the shared energy — it’s not lost on me. That’s why my dream (like most women of a certain age) is to open a café with vintage furniture and homewares and books and music and defenders. A place where people can savour a delicious cup of coffee. No performances, no pressure. Just being.
At home, though? There’s freedom. There’s comfort in eating leftover dinner, streaming season 21 of Grey’s Anatomy, and the sunset melting over the village. It’s not exciting or glamorous, but it’s mine. And that’s enough.
So, here’s to the homebodies. We’re not broken or boring. We’re just living on our own terms, without the noise and nonsense. And honestly? That peace is worth more than anything.
Mum’s Apple Pie.
On what i’ve been calling Single Mother’s Day, the homebody in me decided to bake mum’s apple pie today (or, Eve’s Pudding, to use its full government name).
Mum baked one every Sunday when i was little, and we ate it after she had served up a roast dinner. It’s literal comfort in a bowl; best eaten with lashings of double cream or hot custard.
If you need a little rustic nostalgia — today, or any other day — give it a whirl. It’s soooo quick and easy. Simply plonk all ingredients into a mixing bowl at the same time (mum’s throwback orange Tupperware, not mandatory), whisk it up and spread over sliced apples in a pie dish.
i subbed ‘Flora’ for real butter at room temperature. i also doubled her recipe, because pie dishes seem to have supersized over the years. Oh, and it also didn’t need to bake for as long as is written down, so keep an eye on that too. Other than that 🤪, her 30-year-old recipe is good to go.
Licking out the bowl is the law (i don’t make the rules).
Enjoy!
Love,
Lyss. x
p.s. if i have a coffee date planned with you over the next couple of weeks, i do realllly want to see you. it’s just about recognising what gives you energy and what takes it out of you. There’s a chance i just might nap when i get home, lol. Love ya.
Good gosh. Are we twins?