It’s a bold move to say, yes, this is the light and this is the place and this is the version of myself I’m locking in. Hardwiring believes in destiny. It believes in floor plans that never change. It believes January resolutions are sincere and that you will not wake up one day and decide the bed should rotate ninety degrees or that the desk was a mistake.

A plug-in sconce, on the other hand, is generous.

It offers ambiance without demanding a lifelong promise. It says, let’s try this and see how it goes. It’s the design equivalent of moving in together but keeping your toothbrush in your own apartment, just in case.

I love a plug-in sconce because it understands how life actually works. Walls are precious. Layouts shift. Beds migrate. Desks become dining tables and then become desks again, usually with a different personality. Taste evolves. A hardwired sconce locks you into a decision you made on a Tuesday when you had good lighting and emotional clarity. A plug-in lets you change your mind quietly, without calling an electrician, opening the wall, or having a brief but meaningful identity crisis.

Then there’s the junction box. That mysterious hole that never lands where you want it, but insists on being acknowledged, like a passive-aggressive roommate. A plug-in sconce is a very elegant way of saying, I see you, but you are not in charge here.

And here is the part that still feels slightly rebellious. Almost any sconce can be a plug-in.

This is not a special category reserved for renters or people afraid of commitment. It’s a wiring choice. A cord. A small, deliberate refusal. Even the most serious, architectural sconce can loosen its tie, run a cord, and agree to be flexible. I find this deeply reassuring, especially in early January, when everyone else is making plans.