Yesterday was an "at-home" day with my boys and for the first time in weeks, I felt relatively well-rested and itching to get some small projects done around the house. I started by hanging the framed Beatles concert poster that I claimed when my sister and I cleared out my Dad's apartment a few months ago. I hung the wire fruit baskets above our kitchen sink that I had ordered from World Market a couple weeks ago. I finally trimmed down a print I had ordered from Shutterfly and inserted it into the empty, thrifted frame that's been hanging in our dining room for an embarrassingly long time.
I come from a pretty creative family. My Dad was an incredibly talented musician. He was an amazing vocalist, as well as guitar and bass player. He was also a skilled carpenter by day; something I've always admired and wished I had the ability to do. My mother went to college for fashion design and you should see her with a sewing machine. She is incredibly stylish and just has a natural talent for making things beautiful. My sister also inherited the artsy gene- she majored in Art History and is one of those annoying people who can quickly master whatever hobby she sets her mind to.
Me? The genes must have skipped me. Sewing? I don't have the patience for it. Carpentry? Too many numbers. Music? I can't sing and though I dabbled in guitar lessons when I was younger, I lacked both the natural rhythm and self-discipline that playing an instrument requires.
But home decorating? I think I found my artistic outlet. I love to inject color into our lives. I love following other designers on Instagram to see how they're using light, and plants, and textiles to make their homes a thing of beauty. I love thrifting to find the perfect piece for a neglected corner of our living spaces. I love making our home a cozy, hippie oasis that reflects our style and personalities.
I've moved around a lot throughout my life. Home was never one place. Nor was it even a feeling. For a long time I thought it was because I was meant to be a gypsy soul. I didn't realize until we bought our house in 2015, that although I love to travel and see the world, this couldn't be further from the truth. I am a homebody, through and through. I just never had a home base until now.
My home is my happy place. It's the place I feel safe and comfortable. It's the place I feel loved and content. It's the place where I get to invite in my loved ones. It's the place I want my boys to grow up in and have as their home base. This is all new to me, but it gives me the warmest of fuzzies. After so much instablity growing up, and especially after spending six years of my life under the roof of an abusive person, I don't take this feeling for granted. I appreciate the contentment this roof over my head provides in a whole new way.
So while decorating my home is a creative outlet at best, and a silly, superficial hobby at worst, I'm embracing it. I am so happy to have a happy home. A home to call my own. And I cherish that I get to make it my own personal brand of beautiful.
And after I checked each of these minuscule tasks off my list, I felt a sense of pride and peace wash over me.
I love making our house a home.
I come from a pretty creative family. My Dad was an incredibly talented musician. He was an amazing vocalist, as well as guitar and bass player. He was also a skilled carpenter by day; something I've always admired and wished I had the ability to do. My mother went to college for fashion design and you should see her with a sewing machine. She is incredibly stylish and just has a natural talent for making things beautiful. My sister also inherited the artsy gene- she majored in Art History and is one of those annoying people who can quickly master whatever hobby she sets her mind to.
Me? The genes must have skipped me. Sewing? I don't have the patience for it. Carpentry? Too many numbers. Music? I can't sing and though I dabbled in guitar lessons when I was younger, I lacked both the natural rhythm and self-discipline that playing an instrument requires.
But home decorating? I think I found my artistic outlet. I love to inject color into our lives. I love following other designers on Instagram to see how they're using light, and plants, and textiles to make their homes a thing of beauty. I love thrifting to find the perfect piece for a neglected corner of our living spaces. I love making our home a cozy, hippie oasis that reflects our style and personalities.
But more than that, interior design is my way of cultivating my happy home.
I've moved around a lot throughout my life. Home was never one place. Nor was it even a feeling. For a long time I thought it was because I was meant to be a gypsy soul. I didn't realize until we bought our house in 2015, that although I love to travel and see the world, this couldn't be further from the truth. I am a homebody, through and through. I just never had a home base until now.
My home is my happy place. It's the place I feel safe and comfortable. It's the place I feel loved and content. It's the place where I get to invite in my loved ones. It's the place I want my boys to grow up in and have as their home base. This is all new to me, but it gives me the warmest of fuzzies. After so much instablity growing up, and especially after spending six years of my life under the roof of an abusive person, I don't take this feeling for granted. I appreciate the contentment this roof over my head provides in a whole new way.
So while decorating my home is a creative outlet at best, and a silly, superficial hobby at worst, I'm embracing it. I am so happy to have a happy home. A home to call my own. And I cherish that I get to make it my own personal brand of beautiful.
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