People usually expect an answer measured in colors and furniture.
“Mid-century modern.”
“Farmhouse.”
“Industrial.”
“Minimalist.”
I always smile when they ask because none of those answers feels entirely true. My home isn’t decorated according to a design magazine. It has been assembled the way a life is assembled—one heartbreak, one hope, one hard-earned lesson at a time.
If I had to describe my decorating style, I’d call it Redemption with Good Lighting.
Every room tells the story of someone who spent too many years living inside houses that belonged to other people.
For much of my life, I decorated my existence the way I thought everyone expected me to. I filled emotional shelves with obligations. I hung expectations on every wall. I arranged my furniture so no one else would feel uncomfortable, even if I couldn’t find a comfortable place to sit myself.
Then one day I realized something.
The saddest house isn’t the empty one.
It’s the one where the owner has disappeared.
So I began bringing myself home.
Now I choose rooms the way I choose relationships: open, honest, and full of natural light.
I love clean lines because life has been complicated enough.
I love wood because trees spend decades becoming beautiful instead of weeks.
I love linen because wrinkles remind me that perfection was never the goal.
I love books because every shelf whispers that there are still more lives to live than the one I’m currently inhabiting.
If you walked into my home, you would notice the books first.
Thousands of pages waiting patiently to introduce me to people who never existed and people who changed the world. Every spine is a conversation. Every bookmark is a promise that I intend to return.
Books are proof that I still believe tomorrow might teach me something.
You’d probably notice the photographs next.
Mostly black-and-white.
I’ve always believed color can sometimes distract from truth. Strip away the reds and blues and greens, and suddenly all that’s left is light struggling against darkness. That’s what photography has always been to me—not recording appearances but revealing souls.
Perhaps that’s why I love black frames with generous white mats.
The white space lets the image breathe.
I’ve discovered people need that too.
We all need room around our stories.
You’ll find plants throughout the house as well.
Not because I’m particularly gifted at keeping them alive—some would argue the plants deserve hazard pay—but because growing things remind me that life rarely announces when it’s healing.
Roots grow in silence.
Leaves appear later.
Faith often works the same way.
You’ll see soft greens, warm ivories, weathered woods, charcoal blacks, and touches of deep blue.
The colors of forests.
The colors of oceans.
The colors of storms just before they break open into sunlight.
Nothing shouts.
Everything invites.
There are candles that smell like cedar after rain.
Throws folded over chairs because comfort should never be stored in a closet.
Windows left uncovered whenever possible because sunlight has become one of my favorite forms of theology.
It enters without asking permission.
It illuminates without condemnation.
It simply reveals.
That feels like grace.
I suppose that’s why I don’t understand homes built only for appearance.
Some people decorate for guests.
I decorate for returning.
I want my home to feel like the deep breath I’ve been waiting all day to take.
I want every chair to say, “Rest.”
Every lamp to whisper, “Stay awhile.”
Every room to remind me that survival is not the same thing as living.
The older I become, the less interested I am in impressing anyone.
Instead, I want authenticity.
Furniture should be sat on.
Tables should collect coffee rings from meaningful conversations.
Floors should echo with laughter.
Books should have bent pages.
Blankets should smell faintly of naps.
Homes are not museums.
They’re sanctuaries.
I think that’s why I no longer buy many decorative objects simply because they’re beautiful.
I ask a different question now.
Does it tell the truth?
The old typewriter does.
The weathered Bible does.
The camera resting on the shelf does.
The handwritten journals do.
The framed photograph from a journey does.
Even the empty chair beside the window tells the truth.
It reminds me there is always room for another conversation.
Perhaps that’s my decorating philosophy.
Not collecting things.
Collecting reminders.
Reminders that beauty survives grief.
That broken people still build beautiful spaces.
That authenticity is the finest architecture.
That peace doesn’t happen accidentally.
It is chosen, one object at a time.
One room at a time.
One honest day at a time.
Maybe that’s why my favorite part of the house is never a specific room.
It’s the feeling that settles over me after I close the front door.
For so many years, I searched for a place where I could finally belong.
What I eventually discovered was this:
Home isn’t where your furniture lives.
Home is where your soul finally stops apologizing for taking up space.
That’s my decorating style.
Not modern.
Not traditional.
Not eclectic.
Simply a quiet collection of light, books, wood, photographs, grace, and second chances.
A home that, much like its owner, is still becoming.
And I think that’s the most beautiful design of all.
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