Introduction
The evening light was casting across the bedroom when my grandma made the same joke she always does.
“Mara, you’re no homemaker. You just don’t have a domestic bone in your body.”
Those words, said in jest, cut like a barb.
Meanwhile, the dishes were piled up, the laundry was all dirty, and the floors were honestly revolting to look at. I didn’t need another reminder.
What she didn’t realize was that she had hit a sore spot. The truth is, I want nothing more than to be a skilled homemaker. I knew our home was a disaster zone, yet I was paralyzed by overwhelm and could never figure out how to start.
That conversation sparked a question I couldn’t ignore: What does homemaking mean to me, and why is it something I’ve spent years rebelling against?
Trapped by Old Ideas
I didn’t reject homemaking because I hated domestic life. I rejected it because I had only ever known it as control.
My father was a Church of Christ minister, and it was drilled into me that I should aspire to be a “Proverbs 31 woman.” Still, a life framed entirely around submission never resonated with me. What made it harder was the hypocrisy. Our home was chaotic.
Cleaning usually happened as punishment, not as a steady, necessary life skill. I remember long stretches of being forced to clean all weekend with no rest because of some minor offense during the week. At the time, it was labeled “attitude.” Now we know it was unmanaged AuDHD.
When I left home and deconstructed from the Church, I ran as far away from the implied control of homemaking as I could. I lived out of a laundry hamper. I washed dishes only when I needed them because every single one was dirty. It was chaos. I’m not proud of it, but I understand it now.
I wasn’t rejecting homemaking itself. I was rejecting the way it had been weaponized. For years, it had been shown to me through a lens of control instead of a lens of love. I just needed a shift in perspective.
The Shift Toward Love
When my grandma made her joke that night, something clicked. I wasn’t running from domesticity. If anything, I was craving it.
The life I desire, the peaceful, cozy life, can only exist if I maintain my space to higher standards. For the first time, I saw that homemaking did not have to mean submission. It could mean something else.
One of my primary love languages is acts of service. I love doing things for the people I care about. So what is more loving than building and maintaining the shared living space where our lives unfold?
That was when I realized what homemaking means to me. It means love made visible. It means devotion. Devotion to my family, to my husband, to my craft, and to my mental health.
Homemaking is not just cleaning a house. It is making sure everyone has full bellies before bed. It is balancing the finances so there is stability. It is hot tea in the evening and cookies in the afternoon. At its core, it is creating an environment where people feel safe.
This understanding of homemaking is also deeply tied to my spiritual life. I have written before about why I can’t practice witchcraft with a messy home. The clutter boxes me in. The energy feels stagnant. My altar loses its purpose.
As I have been drawn more toward traditional spiritual practices, I have noticed how often they center around the home, around the hearth, around tending. If I wanted to actualize both my spiritual life and my dream of being a housewife on my own terms, I had to heal my relationship with homemaking. I had to redefine what homemaking means to me.
Romanticizing Homemaking On Purpose
I think it is perfectly natural to romanticize your life, so intentionally, I have decided to romanticize homemaking.
I want to build the ultimate cozy haven for my family. There is coffee and cinnamon rolls in the morning. Hearty dinners on the table at night. Blankets layered over comfy couches. The scent of sandalwood, vanilla, and clean laundry hanging in the air.
During the colder months, the hearth is alive with fire. In the spring, it is decorated with fresh flowers. The dog is sleeping lazily on the bed while old school morning cartoons play softly in the background.
The floors are swept, clearing the negative energy from the day. The dishes become meditation. The laundry is folded like a quiet protection spell around whoever wears it next.
It is safe. It is welcoming. It is the kind of home you are glad to come back to.
That is what homemaking means to me. Not perfection. Not performance. Not proving my worth. Instead, it is creating a home that feels warm, intentional, and alive.
Conclusion: Becoming the Homemaker I Want to Be
For a long time, I believed homemaking was something I was bad at, something I lacked, something I would never naturally embody.
Now I see it differently.
Homemaking, to me, is not about having a spotless house at all times. It is not about submission or meeting someone else’s expectations. It is not about earning my place. It is about choosing, every day, to tend the space that holds my life.
It is love expressed in ordinary, repetitive tasks. It is reclaiming domestic life from control and reshaping it into devotion.
I am not the finished version of the homemaker I want to be. Some days the dishes still pile up. Some days I still feel overwhelmed. Even so, instead of running from it, I am building it.
Slowly. Intentionally. With love.
And that, above all, is what homemaking means to me.