The first house: Beach house 1

I call it my first house.

Technically, it wasn’t the first property I owned. Before that, there was an apartment. But this—this was different. This was a house. With a door that opened to sky and trees. With stairs and levels and sunlight pouring in from places I hadn’t even imagined yet. So to me, it will always be my first house.

I still remember the open house day.

The moment I stepped inside, the living room was glowing. Sunlight streamed through the large front window, stretching across the carpet floor as if it had been waiting for someone to notice it. In the kitchen, a square window above the sink framed the sky like a painting. Even though there was a wall separating the kitchen and dining room back then, the light was unstoppable. It found its way in.

Later, when I opened that wall completely, the sunlight began traveling freely—moving from the kitchen into dining room, shifting throughout the day like a quiet performance. Morning light felt gentle and hopeful. Afternoon light became bold and golden. Every day, the house carried its own rhythm through the sun’s journey.

That afternoon, the sliding door from the kitchen to the deck was open. A warm late-summer breeze drifted inside, soft and steady. It mingled with the sunlight, and in that moment, something clicked.

We were in the middle of Long Island—not by the ocean, not near the shore. But standing there, I felt like I was inside a beach house. Breezy. Bright. Effortless. Welcoming.

I could already see it.

That was the last house we visited after months of searching. We arrived with no expectations, just a small “why not?” feeling.

And then—there it was. My first house.

From that day on, I held onto one clear vision: a beach house concept.

Our budget was tight at the time, so we decided to focus only on the main living spaces. It was a split-level house, with the entrance opening onto a mid-level landing. From there, a short staircase led down to a ground-floor den, half bath, and laundry room, with double doors opening to a backyard partially shaded by the upper deck. Five steps up from the living room brought you to the kitchen and dining area, and down the hallway were four bedrooms and two bathrooms.

We renovated the first and one-and-a-half floors completely.

The first decision was the flooring. I chose wide-plank oak in a light tone—soft and natural, the kind that immediately whispers “coastal” without trying too hard. The living room had a high ceiling, which made the space feel airy and open—perfect for the beach house feeling I wanted to create.

The wall color took time. I searched for a creamy shade that wasn’t yellow, something warm yet crisp at the same time. A color that felt sun-washed but still clean. When we finally found it, the entire space softened.

Then came the sofa.

I designed it myself—line by line. I wanted something generous enough to anchor the large living room, upholstered in a warm cotton tone with wide, soft hems. I selected the fabric carefully, chose the wood finish for the base, tested cushion densities until they felt just right. After several rounds of adjustments and approvals, it was made. One of a kind. Mine.

On the largest wall, I hung one of my paintings: a distant strip of sea stretching quietly across the bottom fifth of the canvas, and above it, an expansive blue sky filled with cotton-candy clouds. Tiny birds drifted across the open air.

To extend the feeling beyond the frame, I installed twelve sculptural birds along the adjacent wall, positioned so they appeared to be flying into the painting. Your eyes follow them. Your imagination follows them even further. Suddenly, the room feels bigger than its walls. It invites you to see beyond.

From outside, through the large living room window, you can glimpse the blue sky of the painting and the sculptural birds in flight. And when you step inside, the light oak floors, the soft cotton-toned sofa, and pastel cushions welcome you gently—like walking into a resort lobby by the sea.

And that was always the intention.

Even in the middle of Long Island, far from any shoreline, I created my own beach house—filled with light, breeze, and the quiet feeling of being exactly where I was meant to be.

- to be continued for kitchen, dining and the rest of area.