The concept of hospitality thrives in the South. It’s an inherent part of our identities. We fill our dining tables with heirlooms and place flowers around our houses to help everyone relax and enjoy. For 20 years, I believed I had this notion well in hand. I worked at a design magazine called Southern Accents, editing stories about decorating, antiques, art, travel, and entertaining. What I didn’t know then was that my education in gracious living hadn’t really begun.

For most of my career, I had lived in a circa-1900s Arts and Crafts house that was perched on a hill and featured an imposing set of front steps. It was big, and my family used all three floors thoroughly. I loved my large dining room where we gathered for nightly meals and hosted lots of impromptu get-togethers. The interiors showcased pieces we had brought back from our travels plus fabrics and colors that reflected what some might consider a wandering eye—but I called wanderlust. During that time, I learned I had multiple sclerosis. Those words were devastating, but the impact in the first few decades following my diagnosis was minor. When work sent me to a city full of uneven and narrow walkways or a gallery or house above a shop, all the better.

These days, I study cobblestone streets and deliberate about whether the potentially harrowing experience will be worth the reward. Forget grand staircases; I look for easy side entrances. I plot out visits to botanical gardens and friends’ homes ahead of time. These obstacles have not stopped me, particularly in our post-quarantine world where I feel more liberated as severe cases of COVID continue to decline. But that has made me think: How can I live my best life when I’m challenged simply by getting into the most desirable destinations? How can anyone?

For as long as I could, I resisted altering our house to make it more accessible. I refused to add plastic grab bars or industrial ramps to anticipate future needs. My muscle memory knew when to lift my dragging foot to clear a high threshold or step onto the area rugs. I was unrelenting and would not take liberties with my historic house. We had to move.

At first, we thought about working with an architect certified in universal design to build a house. According to The Universal Design Project, the term refers to a process where everything is made to be “as functional as possible for as many people as possible.” The concept is broad and multilayered, but as it pertained to me, it meant a space that would keep me safe and help free my days from unnecessary frustrations. The intent was to avoid the makeshift adaptations that are as depressing to me as they are unattractive. My goal is the same as anyone’s: to move through life and extract joy from my surroundings as I continue to shape my world on my terms.

From a design perspective, I wanted to have wide, airy doorways that could also accommodate whatever sort of walking aid I might eventually need and any art collection I chose to display. I didn’t want to see grab bars. (I thought, “Maybe they could be towel bars or hidden from view?”) Then I became a little obsessed with decorating the elevator. Applying the same style lens that I’d focused on past powder rooms, I envisioned a herringbone wood floor, graphic wallpaper or printed fabric, and a brass control panel. I researched light switches that could be placed low enough to be reached when standing or sitting but were also discreet enough to disappear. In my planning, the construction of a new house became as much about aesthetics as accessibility. It would reflect me and my family—featuring our tastes as well as practical necessities.

My brainstorming came to an end when we discovered a one-story mid-century modern house with walls of windows and flush thresholds. It was as if the 1960s architect had read my mind—or had a prescient understanding of universal design—and we could move in immediately. There are no steps to the front entry. It has spacious passages and wide doorways throughout, a large shower that accommodates a bench, and enough light streaming in to make me happy. But there are still challenges.

The house requires some work to make it the best version of itself—like a more stable front walkway that’s as alluring as it is safe, plus moody outdoor lighting to illuminate the path without blinding the neighbors. We’ll also need an architect and designer to reconfigure the kitchen, baths, and laundry rooms to maximize their utility. And there’s so much more that I don’t yet know about that will help achieve the balance of being both accessible and aesthetically pleasing.

In the past, as an editor who focused on antiques, I shuddered when I read about a decorator altering a piece to make it right for clients who wanted a lower table or a new finish. But my life has inspired a different perspective. Homes are meant to be lived in, polished and bruised by the highs and lows of everyday life. Being a steward of a house, no matter the age, gives you the license—and maybe even the responsibility—to modify it to suit your needs and support it as it continues its timeless march. That’s what I’ve learned about gracious hospitality. Of course, it’s also about party-ready rooms, but only if comfort and ease have already been built in.