Most of us live in houses with doors. It’s pretty normal to have doors. But right now, our house has no interior doors; they are all off their hinges and in our garage, lined up tall and unflinching, getting a fresh coat of paint.
My teenagers came home to find that their bedrooms—their sanctuaries—no longer offered a way to escape the world. “How are we going to sleep?! How are we going to change?!” they asked in exasperation.
And then things got worse. My daughter discovered the bathroom had no door. “MOOOOM!!!” She moaned, disbelief oozing from her glossy, vanilla bean-scented lips.
We wouldn't have doors for about 72 hours, so it wasn't a huge sacrifice—an inconvenience at best. I felt certain, even when my teens didn’t, we would survive.
After the doors came off and I went up the stairs to the hallway shared by three bedrooms, it felt more light-filled than usual. It was a subtle shift that took a moment to notice. Then I realized that with no doors, all the light from the bedroom windows spilled into the hallway. It was a pleasant illumination—the art, hung gallery-style climbing the stairwell, was more vibrant, the space filled with a sense of welcome.
The rest of the day progressed as any other: I cooked, and we ate dinner together with the usual banter of weeknight meals, the kitchen windows darkening around us as early autumn nightfall set in.
I retreated to my room not long after dinner, these longer evenings calling me to tuck in with my books and writing sooner than in summer. In my room with no door, I was aware of the comings and goings of my family in a way I’m normally not. It occurred to me that when I retreat to my room, I often shut the door. The rest of the house has an open floor plan. Even my beloved sunroom, where I spend most evenings, opens to the den and kitchen, the busy hubs of our family life. Sometimes I want and need stillness and true quiet at the end of the day. Tonight, I was aware of all the distinct noises of our shared evenings—my children talking to each other and knocking around in their bedrooms, my husband clanking in the kitchen, and our sweet dog pattering here and there. These are the sounds of my life. I often turn down the volume by shutting my door, and they do the same.
Our doors become walls, literally and metaphorically, and walls divide us and keep us from connecting. Sometimes we need and want doors, but living in a hall of closed doors is not actually what I want. As this thought settled deeper, I pictured all the times I've seen houses with closed doors out in my community. At the bus stop, a scene with hunched-over figures, the walls of five-inch digital doors held in the hands of each person waiting. In restaurants, walls up between people who actually decided to share a meal only to close the doors on each other as they bend over their phones—separately together. I see doors when I watch my fellow Boulderites walk down the street—earbuds in, enclosing themselves behind an invisible wall that signals “NO ENTRY” to all who pass by.
As I sat propped up reading in my bedroom, I felt a sense of connection to my family through the opening. We weren’t talking, but there was a feeling of presence that I don’t usually experience when we are all squirreled away. And this is how we are living societally, with our doors closed to each other, to the aliveness of other humans moving around us, their murmurs, their energy, their availability.
Doors in houses have a practical use, just as smartphones and other tech devices do. And just like doors in homes, we can choose when to keep our digital “doors” open in our communities. We have choice. But it is as though we have forgotten that doors are meant to be left on hinges, not carried around with us, unintentionally used to close the world out or keep ourselves in. Whichever way you look at it, we are cut off from each other. Don’t we all crave more light pouring through the openings in our lives? More chatter, more warmth of the human kind that comes from contact with touch and sight and sound—and a visceral pulse of connection that reminds us we are not alone?
I never thought I would crave a house with no doors. But that night, swathed in the hum of my family life and the distant yet comforting movement of each person I love, I realized I crave not only a home with fewer doors, but a community and world too.
Enjoy the slow- Heather