Summer doesn’t always feel like the beach or the boardwalk. Sometimes, it feels like my abuelita’s house. Well, not the house itself, but rather what it held – warmth, laughter, stories, food, love. That quiet, steady love that wraps around you like a linen curtain in a warm breeze. It’s the kind of feeling that settles deep in your bones and never quite leaves you. And that’s why I return to it – again and again – when I design. Because creating a room that feels like summer goes far beyond decorating. It’s about evoking something. It’s about building spaces that reflect our memories, our comforts, and the softness of a season we want to hold onto.

My childhood summers weren’t filled with travel or extravagance. They were spent at Abuelita’s, tucked into a quiet neighborhood that seemed to operate on its own peaceful rhythm. My mother was the oldest of 14 siblings, which meant my sister and I were just a few years younger than our youngest aunts. We grew up more like sisters, sharing mealtimes, whispering secrets, sneaking snacks, and filling the house with a joyful kind of chaos. And at the center of it all was Abuelita, the heart of our sprawling family. She taught us how to walk, yes – but also how to speak gently. How to fold laundry with care. How to make someone feel seen without needing to say a word. Her home was never fussy, but it was sacred. And when I think about what I want my own home to feel like in the summertime, it’s always hers I return to.

Some of the ideas I use in my decorating today wouldn’t have shown up in Abuelita’s house. There was no playlist or bar cart, no linen sprays or styled tray of fruit. But the feeling of her home – that soft, rooted sense of comfort and care – is what inspires the way I approach seasonal design. It’s not about recreating her house, but about channeling its spirit. Because when we design with the senses in mind, we’re not just creating pretty rooms. We’re creating experiences – ones that linger long after summer ends.

We begin with sight, the most immediate of the senses. In summer, the goal isn’t to fill a space with more. It’s to let it breathe. At Abuelita’s, visual calm came from simplicity – a clean kitchen counter, a bowl of peaches on the table, sheer curtains catching the light. Her home didn’t follow trends, but it felt grounded. In my own space, I reach for soft whites, sandy neutrals, pale greens, and driftwood tones to cool the room and quiet the eye. A single mirror reflecting the afternoon sun or a vase of garden clippings by the sink feels like enough. These simple visuals don’t shout; they soothe.

Scent is where memory lives. Even now, I can recall the fragrance of her house in the heat of summer – garlic and onions browning in oil, rosemary from the backyard, rice steaming on the stove. There’s a kind of comfort in that aroma, a grounding presence that signaled home. Today, I layer scents in more intentional ways. A candle with notes of sage or sea salt near the entryway. A spritz of lavender on the linens. Fresh mint tucked in a jar on the counter. These weren’t things Abuelita used – but the soul of them, the quiet, nurturing intention – is exactly what her home offered. It’s that same sensory generosity I try to recreate now.

Touch is easy to overlook, but it’s central to how we experience summer at home. At Abuelita’s, every surface seemed softened by time – towels warmed by the sun, tablecloths folded and refolded with care, beds made with light cotton sheets. I carry that into my home with fabrics that breathe and textures that invite you to sink in. Linen pillowcases, breezy throws, jute rugs, rattan trays. These aren’t luxuries, they’re grounding. Even a smooth ceramic mug, cool in your hand, can anchor you in the moment. The materials we touch shape how we feel.

Then there’s sound, the background energy of a home. Abuelita’s soundtrack was layered – the hum of the fan, cousins playing down the hall, the scrape of a chair on tile, her voice carrying from the kitchen. I don’t remember silence – I remember life. Now, I create a rhythm in my own home with gentle playlists that shift with the day. Acoustic guitar in the morning, soft jazz in the evening, something nostalgic when the sun begins to set. I open windows so I can hear the breeze, the birds, the distant hum of summer happening. These aren’t grand gestures. They’re ways to let your home breathe along with you.

And finally, taste. Her meals were humble but filled with soul – chicken stewed with herbs from the garden, plantains frying on the stove, chilled fruit served in mismatched bowls. Food was comfort, care, and connection. I honor that now with small edible touches that double as décor. A bowl of peaches on the table. A tray with sparkling water, citrus slices, and mint. A cookbook left open to a summer recipe. These weren’t things she styled, but they’re how I keep the essence of her hospitality alive in my own way.

And always, always, there was her garden. Abuelita’s backyard was an oasis – lush and overflowing with roses, orchids, lilies, hibiscus, ferns, and every herb she could coax to life. It wasn’t formally designed, but it was deeply loved. Watching her tend to it was like watching someone pray. She whispered to the plants, trimmed their leaves, spoke gently to the ones struggling. I used to tease that she loved them more than people. But I see now that they were an extension of how she loved us. Patiently. Devotedly. With time and tenderness.

That same garden spirit guides the way I bring greenery into my home now – not just outside, but in. A clipping in a bud vase. A pot of basil by the window. A sprig of rosemary tied to a linen napkin. These gestures root me in something much deeper than design. They remind me who taught me what love really looks like.

Designing with the five senses isn’t about achieving perfection. It’s about making space for presence. Abuelita didn’t have a design philosophy. She had a way of being, and it soaked into every room, every corner, every story she told as she stirred the pot or swept the floor. Her home wasn’t styled, but it was felt. And in my own way, with my own tools, that’s the home I try to create now.

This summer, may your space feel like my abuelita’s once did – thoughtful, grounding, alive. Let it smell like herbs and sunshine, sound like laughter and music, and feel like soft cotton and bare feet. Let it taste like something you love and look like a place you want to slow down in. Because the best homes aren’t the most perfect. They’re the ones that help us remember how it feels to be cared for.