Sometimes I walk into a beautifully styled room and feel… nothing. It’s all there: the muted palette, the brushed brass hardware, the curated shelf full of design books nobody reads. And yet, the space feels hollow — like a showroom pretending to be a home.
Style is everywhere. Soul, though? That’s rare.
We’ve been taught to chase perfection in our interiors — match the tones, align the furniture, hide the clutter. But somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten how to live in a space, not just decorate it. A real home, I believe, doesn’t apologize for its fingerprints. It welcomes them.
There’s something quietly radical about an old wooden table passed down from your grandmother. Or a chipped mug you always reach for, even though you have newer, prettier ones. These aren’t just objects — they’re emotional landmarks. They ground us. They remind us of who we are when the world outside wants us to perform.
I once stayed in a small house by the sea. The floor creaked with every step, the wallpaper had faded around the window frames, and the armchair in the corner sagged just a little. But everything — everything — felt like it belonged. It wasn’t perfect, but it was whole.
“Imperfect interiors have a softness to them”
Imperfect interiors have a softness to them. They don’t demand to be Instagrammed. They don’t glare at you with clean lines and cold marble. Instead, they tell stories. You see the frayed edge of the rug and wonder who sat there on a rainy afternoon. You feel the warmth of wood worn by years of elbows and cups of tea.
The soul of a home lives in those layers — the visible history of daily life. It’s in the drawer full of mismatched spoons. The framed postcard with a bent corner. The slightly too-small armchair that’s still everyone’s favorite. These are the things we rarely plan for, yet they make a space truly ours.
Of course, design has its place. A beautiful space can uplift the spirit, and there’s nothing wrong with appreciating good lighting and thoughtful layout. But the deeper question is: does your home know your laughter? Has it heard your quiet mornings? Does it carry the echo of real life?
In a world obsessed with clean aesthetics and curated feeds, maybe the real rebellion is this: to choose a home that feels, instead of one that performs.
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