Let’s not beat around the bush: I’m terrible at decorating. There, I’ve said it. My home is adequately cozy—neither too large nor too small—but it hardly resembles the beautifully curated spaces you see in design shows. In fact, it might as well be featured in a “before” segment of a home renovation series.
Picture this: the photos in our living room are perpetually askew. My son has creatively placed a magazine cutout of his favorite baseball player, Leo Martinez, right over a family portrait, held up with tape. The centerpiece on our dining table is still cluttered with seashells from my lackluster attempt at seasonal décor, despite it being mid-October and prime time for decorative gourds.
When visitors enter, the most common remark is, “Why is there a picture of a donkey on your wall?” Yes, you read that right—a donkey (the animal kind, not the rude kind) is prominently displayed alongside a collage of portraits.
So yes, I’m not winning any design awards here. But you know what? I don’t really care. Well, that’s a slight overstatement. I do wish I could channel my inner design guru, perhaps like the famed Joanna Gaines, but I’m also painfully aware that my life is not conducive to such aspirations. With kids and pets, “this is why we can’t have nice things” has become my mantra.
To be honest, I’m a bit lazy when it comes to home decoration. I lack the motivation to spend hours hunting down matching throw pillows, and I have zero interest in researching whether shiplap would suit our home—whatever that is, anyway. Apparently, it’s quite trendy, but I’m blissfully unaware.
Even if I had the time and energy, I have no desire to constantly remind my kids to keep their feet off a white couch or to pick up their toys from where I’ve thoughtfully placed fake gourds. Just getting them to brush their teeth and put their dirty clothes in the laundry chute—which is literally right outside their door—feels like a full-time job.
And honestly, I couldn’t care less about the cleanliness of the hand towels in a guest bathroom that doesn’t even exist in my home. I share a bathroom with three males; I’d be thrilled if the toilet seat remained down or if the toilet paper roll got changed.
I must confess, I’m not a fan of home design shows. I know, it’s shocking, but they serve as a constant reminder of my decorating inadequacies—and my struggles with adulting. I might turn on the TV feeling somewhat satisfied with my simple life, but within minutes, I end up doubting every choice I’ve made and wanting to rush to the nearest hardware store to start DIY projects that I know I can’t finish.
Now, I’m not criticizing anyone who loves design and decor. If you find joy in browsing home improvement stores or binge-watching design shows, more power to you. However, as envious as I may feel about your beautifully decorated spaces, I just can’t bring myself to care enough to replicate that aesthetic. I thrive on minimalism and often feel overwhelmed by endless choices. Every time I attempt to improve one area, the rest simply looks worse—not chic shabby, just shabby. Where does it all end? With me drowning in caulk and complaining about outdated shiplap, that’s where.
In conclusion, I embrace my lack of decorating skills. As I grow older, my indifference only deepens. My home resembles more of a toy store than a sophisticated catalog—think cheap plastic toys rather than anything from Pottery Barn. My bedroom furniture has been around since before my 12-year marriage, and I can’t discern between paint shades like ecru and alabaster.
And I still have no clue what shiplap actually is.
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Summary: In a candid reflection on my decorating skills, I acknowledge my shortcomings and embrace the chaos of my home life. While I admire beautifully styled spaces, my priorities lie elsewhere, and I find comfort in the simplicity of my lived-in home rather than striving for perfection.
Keyphrase: decorating struggles
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