Listen… I don’t know what kind of midlife creativity sprint I’m currently running, but I woke up one morning and decided that my regular, everyday house was no longer enough. Nope. I needed a hotel. A whole hotel. In my home. And instead of my husband looking at me and saying, “Girl, sit down,” he blinked twice like a hostage and said, “Okay, babe, what do you need?” So now here we are, knee-deep in paint fumes and delusion, and honestly? I’m having the time of my life.
The first thing I tackled was the doors. All of them are now painted black. Not dusty black, not crusty black… but sexy, bougie, luxury-resort-at-$389-a-night-plus-resort-fee black. Then, because I refuse to do anything halfway, I added hotel-style door numbers and actual peepholes. Yes, a peephole. Don’t ask me why, just applaud the commitment. And let me tell you something: Those peepholes came all the way from Italy through Amazon. Not Italy like Olive Garden, Italy like Leonardo da Vinci, Amalfi Coast sunsets, Milan Fashion Week Italy. Somebody named Giuseppe was over there hand-assembling tiny peephole parts, wondering why a Haitian woman in the U.S. needed four of them. Mind your business, Giuseppe. Mind your business.
Then I took it up another level because if we’re going to be delusional, we’re going to be thorough about it. I added wainscoting to our hallway, and then, like a true psychopath, I added 643 pieces of tape to create perfect stripes and painted them Agreeable Gray. Six hundred and forty-three, babe. I counted. My back was screaming, my knees filed for separation, my shoulder said, “I quit immediately,” but when I stepped back? Baby. It looked like the lobby of the W Hotel. I walked into my own hallway and almost asked myself for late checkout.
But let me be clear, this isn’t just random DIY chaos. There’s real heart behind it.
I was born in Haiti, and when we came to America, my mom took a job working as a maid in hotels. Some of my sweetest childhood memories were inside the very rooms she cleaned. She would have to hide me while she worked because it was just me and her, and the other maids helped take care of me. Picture Maid in Manhattan with Jennifer Lopez …except nobody fell in love with a wealthy politician, and I wasn’t in a dramatic escalator scene. But those moments shaped me. I watched my mother clean rooms with excellence and dignity, and I learned how to make a bed so tight you could bounce a quarter on it. Those experiences planted a seed: a love for hospitality, beauty, and transforming spaces.
Now that I’m a mom, I want to give my kids a five-star life, not materialistically, but intentionally. I didn’t grow up eating out, traveling, or experiencing luxury. My mother couldn’t afford it. But she gave me something far more valuable: the blueprint and the chance to build a different future. And now, through creativity and Jehovah’s blessings, I get to do for my kids what she wished she could have done for me. I want them to try new foods, see new places, and live in a home that feels inspiring — not because of the price tag, but because of the experience. I want them to say, “Remember when Mom turned the house into a hotel?” and laugh about the chaos we survived together.
So yeah, I’m turning my home into a Hometel because we’re in a recession, and I refuse to keep booking hotel rooms when I’m already paying a mortgage that needs to earn her keep. If you can’t go to the Four Seasons, become the Four Seasons. Genius, if you ask me. I’m documenting the whole thing on Instagram @viallysdiary, too, not because it’s perfect, but because it’s fun. Because I want other moms to know creativity doesn’t expire. Because I want my kids to someday say, “Our mom gave us a five-star childhood.”
So, follow the journey, because I’m nowhere near done. We still have room service to set up (which means the kids taking their plates to the sink), head of maintenance (Nathan, report to duty), and eventually… robes. Like real robes. Because what is a hotel without a robe?
Welcome to Hometel Luxe, babes. Please enjoy your stay, check-in is daily, checkout is never, and the chaos is complimentary.
