I was sitting on my living room floor last Tuesday—don’t ask why the floor, sometimes the sofa just feels too far away when you’re deep in thought—and I was staring at a lamp. It’s a lamp I’ve had for three years. It’s perfectly fine. It turns on, it turns off, and it doesn’t flicker. But as I sat there, I realized I’ve always kind of hated it. It was a “placeholder” purchase, something I bought because the room felt too dark and I needed a quick fix. Three years later, that quick fix had become a permanent resident, silently annoying me every time I walked past it.
It made me think about how we build the spaces we live in. Most of the time, we’re in such a rush to “finish” a room that we end up with a house full of things we don’t actually like. We’re chasing this idea of a completed home, as if there’s a finish line where we can finally stop and say, “Okay, I’m done. Now I can start living.” But the truth is, a home is never really finished. It’s more like a conversation that keeps going, and if you rush the words, you usually end up saying things you don’t mean.
So, I want to talk about that. Not the “ten tips for a better living room” kind of talk, but the real, messy process of figuring out what you actually want your surroundings to feel like. Because let’s be honest, it’s harder than it looks.
The Comparison Trap and the Pinterest Hangover
We’ve all been there. You spend twenty minutes scrolling through photos of perfectly curated rooms with floor-to-ceiling windows and white linen couches that have never seen a stray grape or a muddy paw print. You look up at your own space, and suddenly, everything looks a bit sad. Your rug is too small, your walls are a slightly wrong shade of “eggshell,” and you wonder why your life doesn’t look like a high-gloss magazine cover.
The problem isn’t your house. The problem is that we’re constantly looking at the end result of someone else’s decades-long process—or worse, a staged set—and comparing it to our messy “middle.” We try to replicate these looks by buying everything in one go from a big-box store. We want the “Mid-Century Modern” look or the “Industrial Chic” vibe, so we buy the whole set. But when it arrives, it feels… hollow. It looks like a showroom, not a home. It doesn’t have any of you in it.
I think we need to give ourselves permission to let things be unfinished for a while. It’s okay to have a blank wall while you wait to find a piece of art that actually means something to you. It’s okay to use a folding chair for a month while you hunt for the perfect vintage armchair. The discomfort of an empty corner is much better than the long-term resentment of a piece of furniture you bought just to fill the gap.
Learning Your Own Visual Language
If you were to ask me what my “style” is, I’d probably stumble over my words for a bit. I like things that feel heavy and old, but I also like bright, airy spaces. I like clutter if it’s “good” clutter—stacks of books and jars of pens—but I hate visual noise like tangled cables. It took me a long time to realize that my style isn’t a category you can find in a drop-down menu on a furniture website.
Your visual language is made up of the things that actually make you feel something. Maybe it’s a specific shade of green that reminds you of your grandmother’s garden. Maybe it’s the way light hits a textured glass vase in the afternoon. To find this, you have to stop looking at what’s “in” and start looking at what you actually gravitate toward in the real world.
One thing I’ve found helpful is to look at my clothes. Usually, the colors and textures we feel comfortable wearing are the ones we feel comfortable living in. If you’re a person who wears a lot of soft knits and earthy tones, a cold, minimalist apartment with sharp edges is probably going to make you feel like an intruder in your own home. Trust your instincts. If you love a weird, chunky ceramic lamp that everyone else thinks is ugly, buy it. That lamp is the start of your personal style.
The Magic of the Second-Hand Hunt
I’m a firm believer that every room needs at least one thing that’s older than you are. There’s something about an object that has survived a few decades—or a few centuries—that brings a sense of calm to a space. New furniture is great, don’t get me wrong, but it can be a bit… sterile. It doesn’t have any stories yet.
Thrifting, antiquing, or even just scouring Facebook Marketplace isn’t just about saving money, although that’s a very nice perk. It’s about the hunt. When you find that perfect solid wood dresser with the slightly tarnished brass handles, it feels like a victory. You didn’t just click “add to cart”; you rescued something. You found a piece that has character, and that character rubs off on the room.
If you’re new to buying second-hand, my best advice is to look at the bones, not the skin. A hideous fabric can be covered with a throw or eventually reupholstered. A weird paint color can be sanded down. But you can’t easily fix bad proportions or cheap materials. Look for “real” things: wood, stone, metal, linen. These materials age gracefully, unlike particle board which tends to give up the ghost the second you try to move it to a new apartment.
A few things to look for at thrift stores:
- Picture frames: Even the ugliest art often comes in a high-quality wood or metal frame that would cost a fortune new.
- Lamps: You can always buy a new shade. Look for interesting shapes in the base.
- Books: Hardcover books without their dust jackets add instant warmth to a shelf.
- Glassware: Mismatched wine glasses or heavy glass bowls add a lot of personality to a kitchen.
Lighting: The Hill I Will Die On
You can have the most beautiful furniture in the world, but if you’re sitting under a harsh, clinical overhead light, your home is going to feel like a dentist’s waiting room. I don’t know why most apartments come with those terrible “boob lights” in the center of the ceiling, but they are the enemy of a cozy atmosphere. I almost never turn mine on.
The secret to a space that feels inviting is layers of light. You want “pools” of light rather than one big wash of it. Think about it: a small lamp on a side table, a floor lamp arched over a reading chair, maybe some candles on a mantel. This creates shadows and depth. It makes the room feel larger and more intimate at the same time.
And for the love of all things holy, check your bulbs. If you’re using “daylight” or “cool white” bulbs in your living room or bedroom, you’re basically living in a fluorescent nightmare. Switch to “warm white” or “soft white.” It makes everyone look better, and it makes the whole space feel like a warm hug instead of an interrogation room. It’s a five-dollar fix that changes everything.
The Importance of “Nothing”
We have this weird urge to fill every square inch of our homes. If there’s a gap on a shelf, we buy a little knick-knack to sit there. If there’s an empty corner, we buy a plant we’ll probably forget to water. But some of the best rooms I’ve ever been in are the ones that aren’t afraid of a little empty space. They have room to breathe.
Negative space is a design element just like color or furniture. It gives your eyes a place to rest. When every surface is covered in “stuff,” nothing stands out. But when you have one beautiful vase on a clean table, that vase becomes the star of the show. I’ve started practicing a “one in, one out” rule lately. If I bring home a new decorative object, something else has to go. It keeps the clutter at bay and forces me to really think about what I actually value.
Don’t Be Afraid to Make Mistakes
I once painted my entire hallway a dark, moody navy blue because I saw a photo of it online and thought it looked sophisticated. Within two days, I realized it made the hallway look like a submarine. It was claustrophobic and depressing. I spent a whole weekend painting it back to a soft, boring off-white, and I felt so much better.
I used to feel like a failure when a decor project didn’t work out. I’d think about the money wasted on paint or the time spent moving furniture around. But now, I realize that’s just part of the rent you pay for learning what you like. You have to try things. You have to move the couch to the other wall just to see how it feels. You have to hang a picture slightly too high so you can realize it needs to be lower.
There are no “decorating police” coming to arrest you for having a rug that doesn’t quite match your curtains. Your home is for you, not for your guests, and certainly not for the people on the internet. If you love it, it works. And if you don’t love it anymore, you’re allowed to change it.
A Final Thought on Being “Finished”
I think we’d all be a lot happier if we stopped trying to “finish” our homes. If you think of your space as an evolving reflection of your life, the pressure disappears. It becomes a hobby rather than a chore. You start to notice the way the light changes through the seasons, or how a room feels different when the windows are open.
Your home should tell the story of where you’ve been and where you’re going. It should have the weird souvenir from that trip to the coast, the lopsided bowl your kid made in pottery class, and the chair that’s perfectly broken-in for reading. Those are the things that make a house feel like a home. The rest is just stuff.
So, take your time. Buy the weird lamp. Paint the wall a color that makes you happy. And remember that it’s perfectly okay—maybe even better—to let your home be a work in progress for as long as you live there.