A German word for staying in has gone viral, and I am claiming it.
The pleasures of staying home got a new name this week, and I am claiming it. Stubenhocker. Literally, someone who sits in the room. My mother’s family is German and I have studied German history, and I had never heard the word. It turns out her people have long used it for the person who would rather stay in than go out, and it was never exactly a compliment. Now it is trending online, and I feel vindicated. Being a homebody is now the in thing, a badge of honor.
From what I have seen, the videos are all alike: a cancelled plan, a blanket, a plate of favorite snacks, a pile of books, a warm drink and soft light. Someone has even coined a cheerful name for the feeling, the joy of missing out, the opposite of FOMO.
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The Warmest Room in the House
You learn something new every day, and this week I learned about a room. A Stube is not just any room. In the German-speaking Alpine regions, it is the traditional living area, lined in wood and warmed by a big tiled stove. The family gathered there to talk, sew, weave, and pray, and sometimes even slept there. In grand houses it was the room where guests were received. The word began as a name for a heated room.
So a Stubenhocker is a person who sits in the warmest, best room in the house and sees no reason to leave it. Apparently this was meant as an insult.
The Pleasures of Staying Home
Being an introvert explains part of it, and being a homebody explains a little more. Neither one covers the whole thing. I have a Stube of my own, and it is the entire house. It is a cocoon, warm and cozy and filled with the things and the people I love. Nothing in it makes noise I did not ask for.
And then there is the quiet. When I am home alone, it is often so quiet I can hear a dog turning over on her blanket. No music from a speaker I cannot find, no table of strangers laughing, no phone buzzing against the counter.
If a friend called at four on a Saturday with a perfectly nice invitation, that is what I would be giving up. Not the party. The peace. Peace is not something I intend to apologize for.
My weekends are built around that peace. Friday is takeout, and Friday night is sacred. It is my night, and I am usually putting the final touches on Weekend Meanderings anyway. Saturday and Sunday begin with a lie-in, books and magazines in bed, and an extra cup of something warm, with snoring pups all around. The exceptions are family or social obligations, and the farmers market, where the cinnamon rolls come home with us along with the produce. This time of year there is decorating for the holidays, and then there is the baking. By evening I am in front of the fire with Patches, and Pisa and Paris share a chair (not always). I wrote about the rest in taking back Sunday.
Where I Got It
I am not a psychologist, so take this for what it is. I think it started in my grandmother’s kitchen. She was not a social butterfly. She was home, and whenever I could manage it, so was I, sitting alongside her while she baked, with Pavarotti on the record player. Perhaps the word was in that kitchen all along, just without a name. Add a childhood of moving often, and it makes sense to me that I long for the comfort and safety of one place that stays put.
An Analog Life, If You Will
I am staying off social media and enjoying the life I lived before scrolling sucked me in.
Lately I have grown weary of it. The algorithm seems to be filled with AI, sponsored posts, and things that do not interest me at all. It is draining, too, because every scroll solidifies the same thought in my mind: there are so many miserable people hiding behind their keyboards. The world is so wacky these days that there is no room left for conversation. If you do not agree with someone, forget it, you are not their kind of people.
So I am spending minimal time scrolling and more time reading again. It turns out a fire and a basket of books never send a notification, and nobody in a book has ever unfriended me or insulted me.
If You Have Not Joined the Club
If you have not joined the Stubenhocker club yet, there is no application. Cancel the thing you dread. Put on the soft sweater. Put the kettle on at four. The people who love you will survive your absence from a party, and a few of them, if we are honest, were hoping you would say no first. Give yourself permission to live the life you like, not the one you were taught looked busy enough.
I still go out for the people I love. For them, I put on real clothes, not my lounge wear and slippers. The rest of the time, the chair by the fire is saved as is my spot in the bed.
So I am a Stubenhocker, or strictly speaking a Stubenhockerin, a small piece of my heritage reclaimed, and I intend to wear it the way I wear plaid (my father’s side is English, Irish, and Scottish, so I had a head start), without apology and in several seasons. Are you one too?
Tell me what your weekend at home looks like. I want the details: the chair, the blanket, what is on the table beside you, and who gets the other end of the sofa.
If this post resonated with you, I hope you will follow along on Pinterest and Instagram. I share more thoughts like these throughout the week.
Note: Friends, if you are German and the information for Stube or Stubenhocker is not correct, please let me know. The internet and I sometimes get things wrong.
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On My Radar
This struck me funny, in the best way. Yesterday, I was in a Veteran’s Day parade. It was not fun. Our team leader was an hour and a half late, and I called her out, and then I felt bad. Not very. Our group would not keep up the pace and we were scolded for the gap. I silently determined that this is the last parade I will do, they do not need me, and that alone made me happy. Supremely. I came home, settled on the couch with a springer spaniel acting as my second armrest and dove into the newest Catherine Ryan Hyde book and gave the whole thing not another moment’s thought. I am a Stubenhockerin and happy in my role. Also, I bake. 🙂