The Illusion of the “Perfect Kitchen”
The notion of a perfect kitchen has long been shaped by catalog images, television makeovers, and now, endless scrolling on social media. We are told that perfection looks like gleaming countertops, a coffee station tucked into a custom cabinet, and a fridge seamlessly built into the cabinetry. But as beautiful as those spaces are, they often represent an illusion—one that may not fit the emotional and functional reality of your life. A perfect kitchen in an image is not the same as a kitchen that perfectly supports your habits, aspirations, and the unfiltered rhythm of everyday life.
What makes a kitchen perfect is not the symmetry of subway tiles or the sheen of polished brass faucets. It’s the feeling it offers when you brew your morning tea, the ease with which you find your spices, or the sunlight that lands just right on the breakfast nook where your child scribbles before school. It’s in these lived-in, imperfectly perfect moments that a kitchen becomes something more than a culinary workspace. It becomes a container for memory, emotion, and identity.
Yet many people continue to chase perfection through replication, trying to recreate what they’ve seen in a showroom or online gallery, often forgetting that those spaces were not designed with them in mind. The result is sometimes a room that looks impressive but feels disconnected, sterile, or even burdensome. This disconnect often arises from a misunderstanding of what kitchen perfection truly entails: a space that flows with your life rather than disrupts it.
One Kitchen, Countless Stories
Every home tells a story, and every kitchen is one of its loudest narrators. Unlike the living room or the bedroom, spaces that may be defined by rest or reception, the kitchen is alive. It breathes, it simmers, it crackles with morning rushes and late-night snacks. It transforms itself through seasons, occasions, and phases of life. It might begin as a space for two, then morph into the nucleus of a growing family, later transitioning into a quieter, more reflective zone.
Because the kitchen is so intertwined with the rhythm of daily life, designing it means tapping into one’s own story. A person who enjoys solitary baking on weekends will need a vastly different setup than someone who hosts dinner parties weekly. A young professional may prioritize tech-integrated features, while a multigenerational household may focus on accessibility and safety. In this way, kitchens are not blank canvases waiting to be decorated—they are expressive, reactive, and adaptive environments.
A small galley kitchen with ingenious vertical storage might offer a sense of empowerment and order for someone who thrives on efficiency. Meanwhile, a larger open-plan space with sprawling counters and dual prep zones may represent the dream for an avid entertainer. These aren’t merely aesthetic choices; they are psychological and emotional decisions rooted in one’s lifestyle, values, and priorities. When you consider that, it becomes clear that no two kitchens can or should be alike.
The emotional tone of a kitchen is also molded by its usage. Is it a place of experimentation and wild culinary creativity? Is it a utilitarian spot meant for quick, efficient meal prep? Is it a family forum, where conversations unfold between chopping vegetables and stirring sauces? Once you understand the function your kitchen serves emotionally as well as practically, you begin to unlock what makes it right for you.
The Digital Age of Design: Inspiration vs. Imitation
Never before in history have we had such abundant access to design inspiration. From high-end architecture magazines to interior design influencers on TikTok, the stream of visuals is endless. It’s a double-edged gift: while the democratization of design has made it easier to envision possibilities, it has also blurred the line between inspiration and imitation. Too often, individuals feel compelled to follow trends rather than assess what truly serves their needs.
Platforms like Pinterest and Instagram have created an image economy, where kitchens are styled for the lens rather than for real life. Drawers are always closed. Counters are always clear. The lighting is magical, and the fruit bowl is perfectly placed. But real kitchens are lived in, messy, and dynamic. They are not static frames—they are moving canvases where life unfolds, often unpredictably.
This can create pressure. Many people embark on kitchen renovations not from a place of personal clarity, but from a fear of missing out on what’s considered current. White marble becomes a must-have, farmhouse sinks are deemed essential, and the layout must be open, regardless of whether any of these choices suit the way they live. The pursuit becomes one of validation, not fulfillment.
But a kitchen that looks good on a screen and one that works beautifully in real life are often very different creatures. The truth is, the most successful kitchens are those that are designed from the inside out. That is, they emerge not from trends, but from a thoughtful awareness of one’s habits, values, and domestic rituals. Knowing what you reach for first in the morning, whether you cook daily or weekly, whether you eat at the counter or in the dining room—these are the questions that should shape your design.
And this doesn’t mean rejecting aesthetics. Rather, it means letting form follow function. When aesthetics are layered atop a strong functional base, the result is a kitchen that is both beautiful and deeply attuned to your life.
Designing From Within: A Path to Self-Aware Spaces
What if, instead of chasing a trend, we designed our kitchens like we write autobiographies? Every drawer, every cabinet, every appliance placement would then reflect something personal—an intention, a habit, a desire. This is the essence of self-aware design. And it begins not with Pinterest boards or material samples, but with quiet introspection.
Ask yourself: When does my kitchen feel joyful? When does it feel frustrating? What small inefficiencies slow me down? What sensory experiences—sightlines, textures, scents—elevate my time here? These questions lead to a design that is not only functional but nurturing.
Even more critically, kitchen design should take into account not just how you live now but how you aspire to live. Perhaps you want to cook more often, eat more mindfully, or share more meals with loved ones. Your kitchen can be a tool to support those intentions. Maybe your current kitchen is dark and enclosed, but you crave light and openness. Perhaps the chaos of open shelving is overwhelming, and what you truly need is the calm of concealed storage.
The more honest you are with yourself about your patterns and preferences, the more your kitchen can evolve as a partner in your lifestyle, not an obstacle. And yes, this process may take time. It may involve trial and error, small experiments, and a few design regrets. But in the end, you are crafting a space that does not merely impress guests but empowers you.
It’s also worth noting that the most meaningful kitchens often carry the mark of imperfection. A handmade tile that’s slightly uneven, a reclaimed wood beam with visible age, a cabinet that was repainted in a moment of experimentation—all these elements speak of character, courage, and personalization. They signal that this kitchen was not bought or copied but earned through thoughtfulness and lived experience.
Designing a kitchen from within also gives you the freedom to grow. As your life shifts, so can your space. A design rooted in your authentic self becomes more flexible, less tied to the whims of trend cycles. It invites change instead of resisting it. It welcomes additions, adaptations, and even small chaos. In doing so, it honors the truth that your life, like your kitchen, is always in motion.
The idea of perfection in kitchen design is a mirage until we redefine it. True perfection is not symmetry, nor polish, nor prestige. It’s resonance. It’s the soft echo of your needs answered by design choices that feel intuitive rather than imposed. It’s the way a kitchen becomes the quiet witness to your life’s unfolding—the burnt toast mornings, the birthday cake memories, the late-night conversations over leftovers.
Where Function Precedes Form: A New Design Philosophy
Designing a kitchen may begin with a dream, but it succeeds only with structure. In a world seduced by aesthetics, it’s tempting to let visual inspiration lead the way. But a kitchen that dazzles on the surface and disappoints in use is not a kitchen—it’s a showroom. Real kitchens are hardworking environments. They are tactile, sensory, utilitarian, and emotional all at once. And above all, they must function seamlessly before they aspire to charm.
This is why kitchen design, at its most successful, begins not with finishes but with foresight. When people talk about kitchen planning, they often jump ahead to color schemes, cabinet styles, or backsplash tiles. But underneath those surface choices lies a core question: how will this space serve my life?
The cornerstone of this inquiry is appliance selection. Your stove, oven, refrigerator, and dishwasher are not accessories—they are the machinery that power your rituals. Choosing them first is not about logistics alone; it is about honoring the tasks and rhythms that define your day-to-day existence. Once appliances are set, everything else—from cabinet depth to ventilation routes—falls into alignment. A double oven or six-burner range is not just a design feature; it is a declaration of intent, a signpost for how the kitchen will be used.
There is freedom in this approach. You no longer chase a vague vision of perfection, but instead, curate a space that reflects real-life use. There is humility in letting the tools lead the form. It’s a quiet rebellion against decorative excess, a re-centering of purpose in a world of performative design.
The Rituals That Shape the Space
To truly understand function in the kitchen, you must understand yourself. Not as a trend-follower, but as a daily participant in the rituals that kitchens uniquely host. Design, at its best, is an answer to personal patterns. And so, the second step in any thoughtful kitchen journey is introspection. What do your mornings look like? Are they a blur of quick breakfasts, or a gentle sequence of slow brewing and mindful preparation? Does dinner involve elaborate recipes, or the practical choreography of feeding a family in thirty minutes or less?
These questions are not just lifestyle curiosities—they are design triggers. A person who bakes sourdough weekly needs different storage and prep zones than someone who lives on meal kits and frozen meals. The coffee lover may invest in a built-in brewing system and a custom cabinet for mugs and beans. The wine enthusiast may dream of dual-zone refrigeration. The parent may prioritize safe zones and grab-and-go access for lunchboxes and snacks.
Design becomes intimate when you allow your routines to influence the outcome. This level of clarity can’t be achieved by copying a kitchen seen online. It must be felt, lived, noticed. It is born of standing in your current kitchen and asking: where does frustration arise? Where does flow break down? Where could grace be added?
This is why visiting an appliance showroom can be more revelatory than scrolling through dozens of saved images. There, you can interact with technology, feel the heft of knobs, hear the hum of refrigeration systems, and ask human experts to interpret your needs into options. Online specs may tell you the wattage of a cooktop, but a specialist can tell you how it will serve a Tuesday night curry versus a Saturday roast.
This tactile, experiential layer brings humanity back to the design process. In the end, what you are designing is not just a kitchen—it is a set of living rituals, housed in cabinetry and steel.
Zoning the Soul of the Kitchen
Once you’ve identified the appliances that will serve as your kitchen’s engine, the next layer is its skeleton: the layout. Layout is where spatial intelligence meets behavioral insight. It is the unseen choreography of cooking, cleaning, moving, and gathering—all condensed into one functional narrative.
In new construction, layout is a canvas. In renovation, it is a puzzle. But in both cases, success comes not from maximizing aesthetics, but from minimizing friction. The traditional work triangle—linking stove, sink, and refrigerator—has long guided kitchen design, and with good reason. It recognizes the natural efficiency of reducing unnecessary steps. But in modern kitchens, the triangle has evolved. We now speak of zones: preparation, cooking, cleaning, storage, and sometimes serving or entertaining.
Think of a gourmet chef’s kitchen. It may feature double islands—one for prep and another for casual dining. There might be a warming drawer nestled near the range, a pot filler above the cooktop, and drawers arranged not by aesthetics but by task: knives here, mixing bowls there, spice drawers at arm’s reach. This layout is a mirror to a very specific kind of rhythm—deliberate, layered, performance-driven.
Contrast that with the needs of a busy household. A parent managing multiple tasks might benefit from a single workstation that supports multitasking—chopping veggies while supervising homework or reheating leftovers while prepping lunches. For this user, a command center-style island with wide drawers and integrated outlets may be more useful than two sleek islands. Function becomes emotional here—designed to reduce stress, increase clarity, and support connection.
Storage plays a central role in zoning. The pantry is not just a closet—it is a staging ground. The drawers are not just places for utensils—they are moments of pause. Where you store what matters. And how quickly you can reach it—especially in the middle of a busy weeknight—is what defines user experience.
At its best, layout planning is an act of empathy. You are anticipating your future self’s needs. You are reducing points of tension before they appear. You are offering small luxuries of ease, which in turn become daily comforts. That is not just good design—it is quiet genius.
Living Spaces That Work With You, Not Against You
There’s a quiet elegance in designing a kitchen that works with your life, rather than imposing itself on your life. When you prioritize function, you create a space that meets you where you are—and perhaps, gently nudges you toward who you hope to become.
This approach doesn’t mean forsaking beauty. It simply means that beauty must earn its place. A stunning pendant light is more compelling when it illuminates a thoughtfully placed island. A slab of quartz is more breathtaking when it also houses a built-in prep sink that saves steps and time. When function is prioritized, form becomes meaningful, not ornamental.
Consider the psychological impact of function-led design. A kitchen that flows can reduce decision fatigue, ease tension between family members, and create opportunities for joy. Imagine a well-placed drawer preventing a daily scramble. Imagine the right-sized dishwasher reducing the post-dinner dread. These are not just conveniences—they are acts of kindness toward yourself.
And the function is not static. It is something to revisit, revise, and renew as your life shifts. Children grow. Needs change. Dietary habits evolve. A kitchen designed with flexibility in mind—modular storage, adjustable shelving, appliance upgrades—can evolve with you.
This is the kitchen as a partner, not a stage. It holds your story in motion. It witnesses your growth. It absorbs your moods, hosts your celebrations, and supports your quietest moments of nourishment.
A kitchen that is lived in, loved, and leveraged well doesn’t just support function—it becomes a foundation. It becomes a place where ease is built in, not hoped for. Where your needs are not only met but anticipated. Where daily life becomes just a little more graceful.
The Architecture of Belonging: Rethinking Kitchen Storage
Storage is not just a matter of practicality—it is a philosophy of placement. It determines how easily we move, how comfortably we live, and how well we function within the landscape of our own home. In the kitchen, storage transcends the role of a container. It becomes an intuitive map of daily life, guiding our movements and interactions through a space designed not just for food, but for memory, conversation, and quiet efficiency.
Too often, kitchen storage is approached as an afterthought, a puzzle of fitting more into less. But real harmony arises when storage is envisioned from the beginning—not merely as an add-on, but as the skeletal structure that supports everything else. Imagine opening a drawer and finding each item in its right place, without clutter or confusion. Picture yourself moving through the kitchen with ease, each motion met by access and intention. This is not just functionality—it is rhythm. It is grace.
To achieve this, one must start with the raw truth of daily needs. Storage should not only reflect what we own, but how we use it. A culinary minimalist might thrive with a few well-chosen essentials and a clean countertop, while a passionate home cook may need ample compartments for spices, tools, and gadgets. But even within these broad categories, personal rituals matter. A bread maker might need a deep drawer for flour bins. A smoothie lover might want a quick-access blender shelf near the refrigerator. A tea enthusiast may crave a dedicated drawer for loose leaf infusions and brewing tools.
This is the beginning of designing storage as a dialogue. It’s not about conformity—it’s about care. A kitchen must care for your things so you can care for your time. Customized solutions like vertical tray dividers for platters, deep pull-out drawers with peg organizers, toe-kick storage for rarely used items, and concealed compartments for countertop appliances transform static cabinetry into an active partner in everyday living.
What’s often overlooked in standard designs is the emotional relief of a space where everything belongs. Clutter causes friction—both physical and psychological. When you remove that friction with smart storage, you free yourself to enjoy the rituals of cooking, gathering, and simply being in your kitchen. That emotional freedom is perhaps the most underestimated benefit of thoughtful design.
Inventory of the Invisible: Designing With Awareness
Before one can organize their kitchen space with harmony, one must confront the invisible clutter that defines our habits. This means looking beyond what we wish our kitchen to be and instead examining what it is—what it holds, how it performs, and where it fails. This isn’t just an inventory of objects; it’s an inventory of patterns, quirks, and unspoken routines.
Do you gravitate toward clean, uninterrupted counters? Then your storage must be proactive, creating homes for every appliance that otherwise occupies visual space. If the stand mixer is a source of joy but not a daily necessity, then a lift-up shelf inside a lower cabinet might offer the best of both access and concealment. If you find yourself frequently using oversized serving dishes, then cabinets must be measured against their reality—not a theoretical set of dimensions, but the actual platter you inherited from your grandmother or the bamboo steamer you use on Sundays.
In this way, every object tells a story, and storage becomes the narrator. When we fail to design around the items that shape our culinary lives, we sentence ourselves to chronic disorder. When we succeed, we unlock a kind of poetic utility—a kitchen that holds space not just for function but for personality.
Even small shifts can yield profound changes. A pull-out spice rack next to the cooktop turns a fumble into a fluid gesture. A drawer outfitted with peg systems for plates and bowls replaces the awkward reach of upper cabinets with grounded ease. Hidden compartments beneath banquettes store seasonal kitchen items without compromising aesthetics. And vertical storage for baking sheets, cutting boards, and serving trays makes the awkward elegant.
Storage is no longer just about containment. It’s about connection—between space and self, between ritual and rhythm. And when done right, it becomes a hidden harmony, supporting your lifestyle not with flash but with quiet precision.
The Silent Symphony of Light
If storage is the skeleton of a functional kitchen, then lighting is its soul. It is the element that transforms utility into experience, turning chores into rituals and spaces into stories. Yet so often, lighting is relegated to a late-stage decision—a pendant selected for its shape, a recessed light added for code compliance. In truth, lighting should be a conceptual cornerstone. It is not just a finishing touch—it is a beginning.
The most successful kitchens employ a layered lighting strategy that reflects how people live. Task lighting—placed beneath cabinets or directly above counters—serves the hands and the eyes. It makes prep work safe and confident, casting clarity onto the daily labor of slicing, measuring, stirng. But brieyond that lies ambient lighting, which softens shadows and fills the room with a quiet presence. It helps the space breathe. It widens the emotional field of the room.
Then there is accent lighting—strategically placed to highlight architectural elements, textured walls, or open shelving displays. These lights don’t demand attention, but they reward it. They tell the viewer: look closer. Notice the care. Feel the depth. And finally, there is decorative lighting—the statement-making chandelier, the sculptural pendant, the vintage sconce that tells a story even when it’s turned off. This is the light that communicates mood, aesthetic, and sometimes even memory.
But the most overlooked innovation in kitchen lighting may be the subtlest: interior cabinet and drawer lighting. Imagine opening a drawer at dawn and being greeted by a soft internal glow that reveals every tool, every spice, every utensil without the harshness of overhead lights. This kind of illumination honors quiet hours. It dignifies the early riser and the night owl alike. It adds magic to the mundane.
Lighting is not simply about seeing better. It’s about feeling better. It creates a sense of place, an awareness of transition—from prep to plate, from solitude to hosting. It adapts with you: bright and purposeful when you're cooking a complex meal, warm and diffused when you're sipping tea at night. In this way, light becomes a co-creator of mood, rhythm, and flow.
Designing Emotion Into Every Detail
When you combine intentional storage with nuanced lighting, something alchemical happens. The kitchen stops being a room you use and becomes a room that uses itself well. It begins to serve you before you even ask. A drawer opens where you expect it to. A light turns on when you need it. Your spices are at hand. Your clutter is concealed. Your mornings are smoother. Your evenings are calmer.
This is not about perfection. This is about presence. The presence of design that listens. The presence of a space that meets your needs intuitively, respectfully, quietly.
Consider the emotional resonance of a well-lit corner where your child completes homework while you prepare dinner. Or a pantry that isn’t just stocked, but sorted, where every jar and tin has a name and a place. Or a shelf above the sink that holds not just your favorite mug, but the memory of mornings shared. These small emotional moments are made possible by details—details that respect your life.
Too often, homeowners rush through storage and lighting decisions, treating them as budgetary footnotes rather than the very mechanisms of their daily satisfaction. But what if we inverted the equation? What if we lavished attention on the unseen, the subtle, the supportive? What if we understood that beauty is not the opposite of function, but its flowering?
When your kitchen honors both what it holds and how it glows, it becomes more than a workspace. It becomes an experience. A composition. A form of care. Not just for others, but for yourself.
When Meaning Outweighs Mood Boards
Designers often say that style starts at the beginning, but in the context of kitchen design, true style should arrive at the end. It is not a starting point but a finishing gesture—a final signature on a story that has already taken shape. When we begin with style, we risk building a fantasy; when we end with it, we curate a truth. The danger of prematurely focusing on aesthetics is that it tempts us to make choices based on trends rather than truths. But beauty not grounded in functionality often crumbles under the weight of daily living.
Style that arrives after deep planning is richer, more honest. It’s not driven by a Pinterest board but by life itself. A stunning marble slab means more when chosen not just for its veining but for the way it withstands the rituals of a baker’s routine. A colorful tile backsplash doesn’t just shout personality—it protects a wall that has seen a thousand family dinners. When we delay the decorative, we allow meaning to mature.
Your kitchen is not an art piece—it is an artifact. Every design element can tell a story, but only when placed with intention. That vintage rug beneath the sink may not just be a stylistic touch—it could be the one passed down from a relative, carrying within it the softness of memory. The reclaimed wood used in shelving may come from a barn that once echoed with childhood summers. These details don’t ask to be noticed, but they beg to be felt. They belong to you, not to the pages of a catalogue.
Aesthetic cohesion is often easier to achieve once the kitchen's layout, appliances, lighting, and storage have been resolved. Without the stress of squeezing beauty into an ill-fitting box, you find the freedom to layer, to refine, to speak visually from the soul. At this stage, style becomes not about impressing others but about recognizing yourself. It’s a mirror, not a mask.
The Aesthetic Echo of Identity
There is no such thing as a neutral kitchen. Every material, texture, and color speaks. Even white whispers. Even steel hums with subtext. This is why aesthetic decisions must be made with care—not just about what’s beautiful but about what resonates. Because in the end, your kitchen becomes a portrait of your emotional landscape.
Ask yourself: what do you want your kitchen to feel like when no one is watching? Should it feel grounded, like the smell of earth after rain? Should it feel invigorating, like a sunrise slicing through fog? Should it be a sanctuary from the world or a theater for connection? The answers to these questions will guide your palette, your hardware, your finishes—not because they follow trend, but because they follow truth.
Muted tones may reflect a desire for serenity. Wood grains might speak of your reverence for nature. A burst of yellow tile may express your love for joy, for sunlight, for unapologetic brightness in a world that often asks us to tone it down. Even metals tell stories. Aged brass may recall the patina of your grandmother’s kitchen, while matte black might capture the quiet sophistication of your favorite café.
There is freedom in breaking rules. You don’t have to follow the clean lines of minimalism if you find comfort in visual complexity. You don’t need open shelving if clutter makes you anxious. Aesthetic decisions become transformative when they are grounded in your lived experience—not as reactions to external praise, but as reflections of internal clarity.
Design is not an act of taste. It is an act of intimacy. When style is infused with your spirit, your kitchen stops being a set of surfaces and starts being a story only you could have written.
Soulful Styling in a Superficial World
We live in a world flooded with image culture. Kitchens on social media dazzle with their curated charm: color-coded pantries, staged floral arrangements, bowls of lemons strategically placed. These images can be inspiring, yes—but they can also be suffocating. In chasing that magazine-perfect kitchen, we risk silencing our instincts. But authenticity is rarely photogenic in a conventional sense. It is layered, mismatched, idiosyncratic. It carries fingerprints and burn marks, shelves with character, corners with stories.
To design a soulful kitchen in a world obsessed with aesthetics is an act of quiet rebellion. It is choosing meaning over mimicry, history over hype. It is asking not what others will say when they see your kitchen, but what you will feel every morning you walk into it.
The soul of a space doesn’t lie in its gloss. It lies in the emotion it evokes. A soulful kitchen honors slowness. It respects texture. It invites memory. It allows space for evolution, knowing that styles may shift but spirit remains. The beauty of soul-driven design is that it isn’t bound by era or category. It may include antique accents alongside modern finishes, or handcrafted tiles paired with industrial fixtures. What matters is the why, not the what.
In a soulful kitchen, form doesn’t just follow function—it embraces it. The light fixtures were chosen not just to illuminate but to tell a story about craftsmanship. The barstools weren’t the trendiest option—they were the most comfortable for Sunday brunches that stretch into evening. The paint on the cabinets might not be perfect anymore, but it holds the fingerprints of life lived out loud.
When your kitchen honors your history, reflects your rhythm, and anticipates your needs, it becomes a sacred space. Not because it is polished, but because it is personal.
Beauty as a Byproduct of Purpose
We often misunderstand beauty as the goal of design, when in truth, beauty is the consequence of alignment. When you build your kitchen around your real life, when every shelf and surface has purpose, when light and layout serve the way you move—style happens. Effortlessly. Authentically. It blooms in the gaps left by thoughtful decisions. You don’t have to search for beauty—it appears as a reflection of purpose.
Consider this the invisible thread running through every well-loved kitchen: an atmosphere where the details echo the intentions behind them. There’s something poetic about walking into a space and sensing that nothing is accidental. The cabinet color may be subtle, but it was chosen after weeks of standing in the room at different times of day, watching how the light shifts. The island wasn’t sized for resale—it was sized to accommodate family game night. The open shelving wasn’t installed for Instagram—it was built to hold pottery collected during travels abroad.
Design becomes deeply human when it stops trying to impress and starts trying to understand. When you give yourself permission to create a kitchen that feels right—rather than looks right—you begin to rewrite the script of home ownership. You begin to build not for aesthetics, but for belonging.
And in that belonging, beauty finds you. It settles into the corners, glimmers along the faucet, warms the room during dinner prep. You may not even notice it at first, but you’ll feel it—in the ease of your steps, in the quiet pride you feel during a slow morning, in the way your kitchen becomes the gravitational center of your home without demanding to be.
To design your kitchen is to design your daily life. Make it functional. Make it flexible. But above all, make it true. Because the most beautiful kitchens are not those that chase perfection. They are the ones that reflect the people who live within them.