The Little Things That Stays

I have a profound memory of a stay in Prague — not a hotel, but a set of apartments we booked, almost like an Airbnb. What surprises me even today is this: my daughter was seven years old then, and she remembers almost nothing else from that trip.

But she remembers that apartment.

Six years later, every time we plan a trip and I mention we’re staying in an Airbnb, she asks the same question:
“Is it like the one in Prague? Is it like the M apartments?”

And every time, I pause.

Because after thousands of dollars spent on flights, sightseeing, experiences — what stayed with her wasn’t a monument or a museum. It was a place that felt like home.

It was an old house, thoughtfully done. Nothing flashy. Just beautifully clean, airy rooms, soft light, fresh air, a gentle fragrance. The welcome felt warm, considered. The kind of place where nothing was trying to impress — and yet everything felt complete.

Back then, we didn’t have language for what it was. It wasn’t a “trend.” No one was talking about nervous-system regulation or emotional design. But that’s exactly what it did.

It regulated us.
It softened us.
It made us feel held.

What stayed wasn’t just with me or my husband — it stayed with her. And now, she’s one of the biggest reasons I book the way I do. I find myself unconsciously comparing:
Is the feeling similar? Will the space welcome her the same way? Will she arrive with joy?

That one apartment has become a benchmark — not because it was luxurious, but because it cared.

And I think that’s the quiet power of spaces designed with intention. The little things. The extra care. The unseen thoughtfulness.

They don’t just create comfort in the moment.
They lodge themselves in memory.
They shape how we choose, how we feel, how we return.

To me, that’s the beauty of doing a little extra.

That’s the beauty of the little things in life.