I used to admire perfectly staged homes in design magazines, longing for their immaculate simplicity. The minimalistic decor, devoid of unnecessary knickknacks and superfluous furniture, seemed to radiate a calmness that I often felt was missing from my own life. For a time, I lived in such a space—an elegant gray-and-white residence with expansive windows and vast open spaces that echoed with silence. I worked diligently to maintain that pristine environment, believing that if everything was put away and orderly, I could achieve a sense of peace. My linens were all white, reminiscent of a luxurious hotel—my aim was for my home to appear as if no one actually inhabited it.
Reflecting on that period, it’s clear that my obsession with perfection was a cover for the underlying chaos I was experiencing. Deep down, I sensed that I wasn’t fully engaged in my own life. Recently, when I come across those flawless interiors on social media, I feel a wave of discomfort, almost like nausea. Where I once saw beauty, I now recognize a sterile precision, an artificial portrayal of life. Everything is arranged to perfection—items positioned at exact angles, nightstands that can barely hold a glass, and books that appear more for aesthetic purposes than personal enjoyment.
When I see a meticulously staged kitchen, I can’t help but ponder the absence of everyday essentials like a coffee maker or a designated spot for mail. That decorative bowl of lemons? It’s bound to rot before anyone gets around to using it. The pristine white couch seems too daunting to sit on, especially with kids and pets around. The space feels cold and unwelcoming. It’s all just a facade.
What I crave now is something genuine. Give me cozy, lived-in spaces that reflect life as it truly is. I want mismatched blankets draped over the sofa, colorful pillows strewn across the floor, and eclectic secondhand towels gathered from thrift shops. I desire a jungle of plants, demanding my attention with their unique watering needs. My books should be organized by author, not color—because the purpose of owning books is to read them, after all. I long for vibrant accent walls, sturdy furniture that tells a story, and unique art pieces that don’t necessarily match their surroundings.
This shift in my design philosophy mirrors my personal journey. How we decorate our homes is often a reflection of our identities. In the years when I struggled with my sexuality, I meticulously curated my environment to showcase an illusion of order, hoping that a tidy space could mask the inner turmoil I felt. I would binge-watch home renovation shows, hoping to replicate the pristine aesthetic I admired. Yet now, I find myself drawn to shows that celebrate authentic living, showcasing homes designed around real families. However, can such authenticity truly be captured in a mere hour-long episode?
Recently, I discovered a Facebook community of decorators and homeowners who appreciate the “Boho” aesthetic—a term that embodies individuality and nonconformity. Members share progress photos of their homes, showcasing spaces that evolve over time, never truly finished or flawless. My home, much like my life, is a work in progress.
So you can keep your pristine perfection. I once yearned for it as a means to combat the chaos within. But embracing my true self has taught me that authenticity is often messy—and that’s okay. I still value tidiness, but I now prefer a vibrant life filled with color, warmth, and a touch of disorder over an unattainable ideal of perfection.
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Summary:
This article explores the author’s journey from craving a perfectly staged home to embracing a more authentic, lived-in aesthetic. It highlights how home decor reflects personal identity and the importance of creating spaces that feel genuine and comfortable. The author celebrates the beauty of messiness and individuality over unattainable perfection.
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