I’m writing this as I pack boxes and prepare for my move to the Mullins House.

Thirty-two years.

It’s hard to believe I’ve called you home for that long.

I arrived in January of 1994. I was 24 years old, a few years out of college, ambitious, uncertain, and convinced I was headed for something bigger. At the time, I was working in a nonprofit job that wasn’t quite the right fit. Looking for a change of scenery, I came to visit my aunt in Dublin for a week in the middle of winter.

That trip changed the course of my life.

I landed a job at Cardinal Health as a training coordinator. I was employee number 68. Back then, Cardinal was a small, growing company with big aspirations. I had no idea that opportunity would launch a career spanning healthcare, technology, energy, retail, manufacturing, and consulting.

But this story isn’t really about my career.

It’s about everything else.

When I arrived, Columbus felt approachable. Big enough to offer opportunity, but small enough to make connections. Over the years, I watched neighborhoods evolve, businesses grow, and the skyline change. I watched the city become more diverse, more confident, more creative, and more willing to embrace its own identity.

I watched the Short North transform from an emerging arts district into a nationally recognized destination. I watched Dublin grow from a quiet suburb into a thriving city of its own. I watched Columbus become a place people intentionally chose to call home, not just a place they happened to land.

And somewhere along the way, I grew up right alongside it.

“I watched Columbus become a place people intentionally chose to call home, not just a place they happened to land.”

This city gave me lifelong friendships. It gave me a community where I felt safe. It gave my son a wonderful place to grow up, with great schools, great people, and a sense of belonging that every parent hopes to find.

It also gave me opportunities to serve. My time on the Columbus Community Relations Commission put me in rooms where real conversations were happening, about who gets heard, who gets included, and what it actually takes to build a community where everyone belongs. Those experiences shaped my values in ways I’m still discovering.

And beyond work and service, Columbus introduced me to a rich world of arts, culture, and creativity. Through festivals, neighborhood events, local artists, theaters, restaurants, historic neighborhoods, and countless conversations, I developed a deeper appreciation for the people and stories that make a city unique. What began as curiosity grew into a lifelong love of art, history, architecture, and travel. Looking back, many of the passions that fill my life today can trace their roots back to experiences I had right here in Columbus.

And maybe that’s why I’m now moving into a 108-year-old house with stories of its own.

When I think about what Columbus has given me, it’s easy to list the companies that helped shape my career: Cardinal Health, CompuServe, Huntington Bank, NiSource, and L Brands.

But the real gifts were less tangible.

Confidence.

Friendship.

Community.

Purpose.

Curiosity.

A sense of belonging.

You helped transform a young woman with big dreams into the person she is today.

So what do you say to a city that has given you so much?

I came for a job. I stayed for a life. And that’s really what this letter is about.

Thank you.

Thank you for the opportunities.

Thank you for the people.

Thank you for the art, the culture, the neighborhoods, the experiences, and the memories.

Thank you for helping me build a life.

I’ll miss you, Columbus.

And while my next chapter begins in Salem, part of my story will always belong to you.

With gratitude,
Karan

One item in particular keeps catching my eye.

A small jewelry box.

On its own, it’s not especially valuable. It’s not an antique that belongs in a museum. But to me, it’s priceless.

My grandfather brought it back from Japan after a brief stint serving during World War II. Growing up, it sat in my grandmother’s bedroom, where some of my favorite childhood memories were made.

As a little girl, I loved playing dress up in Grandma’s room. She would let me open drawers and jewelry boxes, trying on sparkly necklaces, bracelets, and rings that seemed impossibly glamorous to my young eyes.

After carefully selecting my treasures, I’d put together an outfit and parade into the living room for a fashion show.

My grandfather would play along every single time. He’d sit patiently, admire the ensemble, and take pictures as though I were walking a Paris runway instead of the carpet in their Illinois home.

And there, sitting on the dresser, was this little jewelry box.

I was fascinated by it.

The painted details. The intricate designs. The tiny drawers that seemed to hold endless possibilities. Long before I understood design styles or decorating trends, I knew I loved how it made me feel.

Somehow, more than twenty years ago, that jewelry box became mine.

It has moved from house to house with me, but for years it was simply something I loved. Something familiar. Something that reminded me of my grandparents.

Then came the Dublin condo.

When I decided to redesign my bedroom, I found myself pulling the jewelry box out and placing it where I could really see it.

And something unexpected happened.

The room started building itself around it.

The colors. The artwork. The chinoiserie influences. The birds and florals. The collected, layered feeling that I love so much.

For the first time, the jewelry box wasn’t simply part of the room. It became the inspiration for the room.

My cousin Lindsay, who owns her own interior design business, helped me bring the vision to life. One of her most incredible finds was a stunning Asian folding screen that immediately became the focal point of the room. It’s the first thing people notice when they walk in, and the piece everyone comments on.

When she found it, I knew it was perfect.

It captured so much of what I loved about that little jewelry box from my grandmother’s dresser. The artistry. The sense of history. The intricate details that invite you to stop and look a little closer.

From there, the room seemed to come together naturally.

I mixed in French influences and old world touches that gave the space a collected feel, as though it had evolved over time rather than been decorated all at once. One of my favorite additions was a pastel drawing of a bouquet of flowers created by my great grandmother.

Without ever setting out to do so, the room became a gathering place for generations.

My grandfather’s gift from Japan.

My grandmother’s jewelry, and the memories of afternoons spent playing dress up in her bedroom.

My great grandmother’s artwork.

And somehow, my own story woven between them.

When people look at a room, they often see furniture, paint colors, and accessories.

What I see are people.

I see my grandmother helping me fasten a necklace.

I see my grandfather smiling behind a camera.

I see the women in my family who loved beautiful things, and passed that appreciation down without ever realizing it.

As I prepare to leave Dublin and begin a new chapter at the Lincoln House, I’m realizing that the things we take with us aren’t always the biggest or most expensive. Sometimes they sit quietly on a dresser, reminding us where we’ve been while helping shape where we’re going.

We think we’re packing up furniture and dishes, but really we’re packing pieces of ourselves: the lessons we learned, the memories we carry, the person we became. And maybe that’s what makes a house a home in the first place. Not the walls. The stories.

What is one object in your home that tells your story? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

I was just sitting at The OG tonight, watching.

Across the room, old friends spotted each other and exchanged hugs. A group at the bar laughed over a joke that clearly had a long history behind it. A wedding party gathered to celebrate two days before the big event. The man who may install the HVAC system in our new house stopped in. So did Scott’s accountant. A first-time customer told me how much he loved the place.

And then a woman walked up and said something that captured everything I had been noticing all evening.

“You know what’s cool about this place?” she asked.

I looked around.

“The bikers come here. The professionals come here. The preppy crowd comes here. Young people. Older people. Everybody feels comfortable here.”

Then she smiled and added, “Everybody comes here.”

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that sentence.

Everybody comes here.

It sounds simple, but in today’s world, it feels almost revolutionary.

We have gotten very good at sorting ourselves. Into neighborhoods, friend groups, political camps, social circles, online communities. We gravitate toward people who share our interests, our backgrounds, our viewpoints, our experiences.

There’s comfort in that.

But there’s also something we lose.

When I looked around the room tonight, I didn’t see a collection of people who were all the same. I saw people who probably vote differently, work different jobs, have different incomes, different hobbies, different life experiences, and different perspectives.

And yet there they were.

Sharing a meal.

Laughing at the next table.

Holding doors open for each other.

Celebrating weddings.

Catching up with old friends.

Welcoming newcomers. Being neighbors.

Maybe that’s what community really is.

Not agreement. Not sameness.

Not everyone living life the same way.

Community is a group of people deciding that what they have in common matters more than what makes them different.

As someone who spent more than thirty years in a larger city, I’ve had wonderful friendships and an incredible professional network. But what I’m discovering in Salem feels different.

There is a sense of connection here that runs deeper than convenience.

People know each other. They show up for each other.

They celebrate together. And perhaps most importantly, they make room for each other.

I’ve only been here a short time, but I can already see why so many people stay.

It’s not just the houses.

It’s not just the history.

It’s not even just the people.

It’s the feeling that you belong to something bigger than yourself.

The feeling that when you walk through the door, someone knows your name.

Or if they don’t yet, they’re willing to learn it.

As Scott and I begin building our life together in Salem, I find myself excited about the house, of course. The renovations. The history. The stories hidden within those old walls.

But tonight reminded me that the best part of this new chapter may not be the house at all.

It may be the people.

Because a house can give you an address.

A community gives you a home.

I’ve been slowly peeling back the layers. Deed records. Old newspaper archives. A visit to the Salem Historical Society, whose archives and staff pointed me in directions I never would have found on my own. And what I uncovered is a story that begins not in Salem, Ohio, but 350 feet above the streets of Manhattan, with a copper goddess named Diana, balanced on one toe, glinting in the sun.

*(If you’re local and curious about Salem’s history, the Salem Historical Society is a genuine gem. More on that below.)*

The Man Who Built It

William H. Mullins was not a man who thought small.

In 1882, he purchased a struggling Salem metalworks, the Kittredge Cornice & Ornament Company, that made decorative building elements: cornices, tin ceilings, architectural ornaments. The company was in debt, had a hundred workers to keep employed during an economic depression, and by any measure was a risky bet.

Mullins took that bet, put his name on the door, and got to work.

What followed was one of the most improbable industrial success stories in Ohio history. The W.H. Mullins Company expanded into weathervanes, outdoor statuary, metal boats, steel car parts, even washing machine tubs, eventually growing into a company that employed thousands. It became, as the Salem Historical Society notes, probably the most diverse and innovative manufacturer Salem ever had.

But nothing the company made would come to define it quite like Diana.

The Goddess on the Skyline

In 1891, a New York architect named Stanford White had a vision: a giant copper weathervane in the shape of the goddess Diana, Roman huntress, arrow drawn, balanced on one foot, to crown the tower of the new Madison Square Garden.

He commissioned sculptor Augustus Saint-Gaudens to design it. And he gave the fabrication job to a metal shop in Salem, Ohio. W.H. Mullins’s shop.

What came out of that Salem foundry was extraordinary: an 18-foot-tall figure of hammered copper, built on a wrought iron skeleton using the same construction method as the Statue of Liberty, and covered in gold leaf. She weighed 1,800 pounds. On September 29, 1891, Diana was hoisted 350 feet into the New York City sky, making Madison Square Garden the tallest building in the city.

She was immediately controversial. Her nudity scandalized moral crusader Anthony Comstock and his Society for the Suppression of Vice, who demanded she be taken down. Newspapers took sides. The debate raged.

Diana stayed.

She eventually came down not because of the protests, but because she was simply too large for the building and too heavy to spin gracefully as a weathervane. A slimmer second version was made, and Diana I was shipped to the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, where she presided over the Court of Honor. The second version stood atop Madison Square Garden until 1925, when the building was demolished. She now lives at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, balanced on her toe on the balcony of the Great Stair Hall.

Diana’s legacy didn’t stop there. A third figure in the same lineage, The Spirit of Progress, a gilded weathervane made in Diana’s image, was created for Montgomery Ward’s grand Chicago Avenue building in 1928. She still stands there today. If you’ve ever looked up at that stretch of Chicago skyline and caught a glint of gold, you’ve seen the echo of something born in a Salem, Ohio metal shop.

Back in Salem, Mullins adopted Diana as the company logo. Her image was stamped into every nameplate of the famous Youngstown Kitchen cabinets the company would eventually produce. The goddess built in Salem became the face of a company that would last for decades.

The House on Lincoln Street

By 1918, William H. Mullins was a wealthy and prominent man, a pillar of Salem society. And he built a house for his youngest daughter.

Her name was Hannah.

854 Lincoln Street went up that year, a gracious home on a tree-lined street, built the way a proud father builds a house for a daughter he loves: with care, with quality, with the details right.

Hannah lived here for a few years, her life unfolding within these walls. And then, as young people do, she left. Pulled west, as so many were in that era. She moved to California, and 854 Lincoln passed out of her immediate keeping.

Fritz Moves In

In the late 1920’s, a cousin moved in. Frederick P. Mullins, W.H.’s nephew, took up residence at 854 Lincoln and made it his own.

Fritz was a man who apparently valued two things above all else: books and children. Because what he added to the house was a library and a playroom.

I love knowing this. I love walking through those rooms now and thinking about the choices Fritz made, to expand, to build for learning and for play, to leave the house a little larger and a little richer than he found it. That library still feels like a library. There’s something in the proportions of the room, the light that falls through the windows, that suits a quiet afternoon with a book.

The June 13th Connection

Here’s my favorite detail in all of this. The one that made me put down my research and just sit with it for a moment.

W.H. Mullins’s oldest daughter, Rose, and Fritz Mullins got married on June 13th. Different years, different ceremonies. But the same date.

June 13th is also my birthday.

I don’t know what to make of that, exactly. It’s the kind of coincidence that doesn’t mean anything and somehow means everything. A thread connecting me to the family who built this place. Rose and Fritz, celebrating on the same June day I arrived in the world, decades before I would ever set foot in the house connected to their families.

Maybe that’s what old houses do. They collect these small alignments, these quiet rhymes across time, and wait for someone to find them.

What Remains Today

The W.H. Mullins Company eventually merged with Youngstown Pressed Steel in 1937, and again with American Standard in 1956. The company that built Diana now exists only in history books, at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and in the memory of Salem.

But 854 Lincoln Street still stands.

The walls that W.H. Mullins raised for Hannah are still here. The library Fritz added is still here. The bones of this house, solid and carefully made, the way a man who built 18-foot copper goddesses knew how to make things, are still here.

And now, so are we.

Every house is a palimpsest, layer upon layer of lives written and partially erased. I’m just the latest entry. But knowing who came before, knowing that this house was built by a man whose work once caught the sun over Manhattan and could be seen from New Jersey, that changes how I walk through it.

It makes the rooms feel a little larger. The ceilings a little higher.

It makes 854 Lincoln feel like exactly what it always was: a house built to last.

A Note on the Salem Historical Society

So much of what I know about W.H. Mullins and his world came from the Salem Historical Society. Their archives, exhibits, and research library on South Lundy Avenue are a remarkable resource, not just for local history buffs but for anyone trying to understand what made Salem the remarkable industrial town it once was. If you’re local, or just curious, it’s absolutely worth a visit.

It feels like yesterday that I moved into my condo in Dublin. I still remember walking through the door for the very first time. It was early morning, and the southern sunlight poured across the entire first floor. The whole place glowed. That was it. Instant love.

It was October 2019. Just months before the pandemic, before the world shifted in ways none of us could have imagined. Looking back now, I realize how lucky I was to land there when I did. It became a safe, comforting little world during those long quiet months of lockdown.

There are so many memories inside these walls.

The parties and dinners with friends. Squiggy’s last few years curled up beside me. Redecorating my bedroom and creating my dreamy chinoiserie lounge exactly the way I wanted it. This home became a reflection of who I was during that chapter of life.

The condo filled up with my growing art collection. My closet, with its chandeliers and ridiculous shoe storage, felt like a warm hug every time I walked into it. Lady loved stretching out in the office chaise lounge under the window while the sunlight poured in. The basement became my workout escape. And the chef’s kitchen saw countless meals, wine nights, conversations, celebrations, and comfort-food experiments.

This place held me through a major season of my life. And that’s why leaving feels bittersweet.

Because while this home still feels like me, it feels like a version of me that no longer fully exists.

The woman who moved into this condo was building a life centered around independence, career success, and creating a beautiful space entirely her own. The woman leaving it has changed.

Now there’s Scott. A shared future. A slower pace. A different definition of success. A part-time consulting life mixed with social media marketing, old-house projects, wine nights, and figuring things out as we go. Less climbing. More living.

The next chapter won’t look like this one.

And honestly? I think that’s the point.

Now comes the old house on Lincoln. A shared home. A slightly chaotic, probably dusty, definitely imperfect place for Scott and me to build something together. New memories. New traditions. New versions of ourselves.

Still bittersweet though.

Because some houses don’t just shelter your life.

They witness it.

And maybe it’s fitting that the pillars in my Dublin kitchen echo the same ones on the back porch of the new house. Different homes. Different versions of me. But somehow connected anyway.

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In a few weeks, I’ll close on a century home in Salem, Ohio. A dream home, on the most historical street in town. And honestly? Two years ago, I could not have told you where Salem was on a map, let alone imagined myself living in one of its oldest houses.

Let me back up.

Not long ago, my life looked like this: up early, workout with my trainer, then straight into the grind. I was leading a large team at one of the biggest consumer products companies in the world, and yes, you almost certainly have at least ten of their products in your kitchen or bathroom right now. My days were a relentless parade of back-to-back meetings. Guiding my team. Project check-ins. Sitting through hour-long status updates. Presenting to fifty, sometimes a hundred-plus employees. Then at the end of the day, I’d walk downstairs out of my home office, find something to eat, watch a little TV, and be asleep by ten. Wake up. Do it again.

Rinse and repeat, five days a week.

But outside of work? My life was quiet. In a way that starts to feel loud if you sit with it long enough.

I was no stranger to dating. Truly, I had put in my time. eHarmony, Hinge, Tinder, Match.com, Bumble, you name it. I was what you might generously call a serial dater. A professional. Malcolm Gladwell says mastery takes 10,000 hours, and I was well on my way. The problem was, none of it was leading anywhere that felt like home.

Then, in May of 2024, I decided to give Facebook Dating a shot. Don’t laugh, or go ahead, laugh. I did too.

That’s where I met Scott.

He was in Columbus at the time, visiting his dad who was recovering in a rehabilitation center in Hilliard, about five minutes from my house in Dublin. Between doctor updates and watching his dad rest, he had some downtime. So he logged onto Facebook Dating. And somehow, in that in-between space of hospital waiting rooms and quiet evenings, our paths crossed.

We started talking online in mid-May. What began as a distraction during a hard week turned into something neither of us was entirely prepared for. He was kind and funny and real in a way that felt different from the carefully curated versions of people I’d met on other apps. I didn’t overthink it. I just kept showing up to the conversation.

There is so much more to our story, and I promise I’ll get to it. Scott deserves more than a paragraph, and what unfolded between that first message and where we are today is a story worth telling properly. So stay tuned for that one.

Now here I am. A few weeks out from closing on a home that has been standing for over a hundred years, on the most historical street in a town I never thought to look for. A street named after my favorite president of all time

.

I didn’t set out to find a century home or a small Ohio town or a new chapter that looks nothing like the one I was living. I thought I was just filling out a dating profile on a slow afternoon.

Turns out, love doesn’t just lead you to a person. Sometimes it leads you to a whole life, one you didn’t know you were looking for, on a street named after someone you’ve always admired, in a house with a hundred years of stories waiting to be joined by yours.

That’s how I got here. And I’m just getting started.

— Salem, Ohio · May 2026

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The birds. The soft, faded colors. The kind of pattern you don’t really see anymore. It felt like something that had a story to tell.

Then I saw it up close.

There’s dirt in places. A few scratches. Tiny holes here and there. Parts of it worn down by time.

And somehow… it’s still beautiful.

Maybe even more because of it.

It made me think about where I am in life.

In my 50s, I’m not untouched. There are a few scuffs. A couple of bruises to the ego. Some wrinkles that showed up uninvited. And let’s not even talk about the hair color situation.

But here’s the thing…

Meeting Scott later in life changed something in me.

He doesn’t see flaws to fix. He sees a story worth loving.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe we’re not meant to stay perfect. Maybe we’re meant to become interesting.

Layered. Worn in. Real.

Like that wallpaper.

A little imperfect. Still beautiful. Still worth falling in love with.

.