On changing styles, growing families, and realizing what really makes a house feel like home.

I’ve been making this house a home for fourteen years. Or at least, that’s what I thought.

From the days of making my husband take down his bachelor-pad deer heads and replacing them with photographs of our newly blended family, to the countless paint colors, furniture rearrangements, and decorating phases that followed, these walls have seen many personalities.

I can still remember pulling into the driveway for the very first time. Gene had invited me over on what was probably our third date, and I had no idea that the house sitting in front of me would one day hold so much of our story. There are little details from that day that still flood my memory. The overgrown but neatly trimmed bushes lining the front of the house. The picture-perfect white porch stretching across its entire width. The baby blue shutters and front door with gold trim. The bare back yard with nothing but an old dead oak tree lying at the woods line. And once inside, a kitchen complete with oak cabinets, blue laminate flooring, and countertops to match.

In the beginning, I filled the rooms with pieces from the life I had lived before. Hand-me-down decor, mismatched furniture, and picture frames filled with new memories slowly found their places among my husband’s belongings. His simple bachelor-pad setup practically screamed, “I just got divorced and moved in!”

Little by little, the house became a mixture of his and hers. A little bit of what had been, mixed with a whole lot of what we were becoming.

And then came the painting.

Oh, the painting.

If it stood still long enough, there was a good chance I was going to paint it. Furniture, cabinets, walls — nothing was safe. And don’t judge me, but I, too, fell head over heels for the black-and-white, shiplap-covered farmhouse era. Looking back, I can laugh at some of those decorating decisions. But each phase was a reflection of who I was at the time, what inspired me, and how I was learning to make a space my own.

Finding My Own Style

Somewhere along the way, my taste began to evolve.

I started realizing that a home didn’t have to look like every beautiful photograph I saved on Pinterest. It didn’t have to follow the latest trend or fit neatly into a particular design category. In fact, it wasn’t until I stopped trying to recreate someone else’s idea of beautiful that our home finally began to feel like us.

I started paying attention to the little things. The details that made a room feel collected rather than decorated. The warmth of wood tones, the softness of layered textures, and the way a certain paint color could look completely different depending on the afternoon light coming through the windows.

I began mixing old with new. Spending a little more on things I truly loved or was immediately obsessed with instead of filling every empty corner with another cute sign, knickknack, or something I would eventually donate six months later.

I became intentional about color, making sure the rooms flowed together instead of feeling like separate chapters of different decorating trends. I learned that finding the perfect neutral is anything but simple. And slowly, I began to understand the difference between simply decorating a house and thoughtfully styling a home.

A Home Should Feel as Beautiful as It Looks

It’s funny how much you can learn about life through something as simple as decorating.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that the most beautiful homes aren’t necessarily the ones with the most expensive furniture, perfectly coordinated accessories, sky high ceilings, fancy bath tubs or magazine-worthy kitchens. They’re the ones that make you want to stay awhile. A room can be glamorous and perfectly styled, but if it feels cold and rigid, chances are the people sitting in it won’t feel very comfortable either.

I want our home to feel warm. Welcoming. Lived in and loved. Give me soft lighting, cozy blankets, layered textures, a good candle burning, and something delicious cooking in the kitchen. That’s my idea of beautiful.

Of course, I’ll probably always be rearranging furniture, collecting inspiration, and convincing Gene that one more project is a good idea. But I’ve learned that beauty and comfort don’t have to compete. The best homes have a little of both.

The Things That Really Make It Home

The other day, Gene was admiring the progress on our newly renovated house.

After months of changes, decisions, and watching the rooms slowly come back together, he looked around and said something that has stayed with me.

“You know, I really love all of the changes. It really feels like home.”

And for some reason, those words made me think about the last fourteen years.

All the paint colors. The furniture we’ve moved around. The projects we’ve started, finished (or not), and occasionally regretted. The countless times I’ve stood in the middle of a room imagining what it could become. My wheels turning, as he says.

For fourteen years, I thought I was making this house a home.

But the truth is, this house became a home long before I found the perfect paint color or learned how to mix antique furniture with something new.

It became a home because of the smiling faces in those picture frames. Faces that have changed from squishy newborn cheeks that smelled of baby powder and spit-up to beautiful senior portraits and prom pictures.

It became a home on Christmas mornings, when little feet raced down the hallway, only to be stopped and reminded that they had to wait until I said they could come into the living room to see what goodies Santa brought.

It became a home on cold fall afternoons when we watched football while a pot of chili simmered on the stove.

It became a home through the piles of leaves raked up just to be jumped in, the enormous blanket forts built across the living room, and the toys scattered across floors that I was always trying to keep clean.

These walls have watched our family grow. They’ve seen babies become teenagers, children become young adults, and two people build a life together. They’ve held some of our happiest days and sheltered us through some of our hardest.

And somehow, through every season, every change, and every version of ourselves, this little house has been right here.

What Fourteen Years Have Taught Me

I still love making things beautiful.

I love choosing paint colors, finding the perfect piece of furniture, and imagining how a room could look with just a few changes. I love the creativity of it all, and I don’t think that will ever go away.

But I’m beginning to understand something that took me fourteen years to learn. No matter how much I change within these walls, it wouldn’t be our home without the people who fill them.

Not the countertops. Not the cabinets. Not the carefully chosen furniture or perfectly fluffed pillows.

The people.

The ones whose shoes pile up by the back door. Whose laughter (or fighting) echoes down the hallway. Whose photographs fill the frames. The ones who have grown up here, made memories here, and given every room a story worth telling.

Today, I let Beau leave school early with me after I attended his field trip. When we pulled in the driveway, he said, “Ahhh it feels good to be home.” THAT is everything.

So keep decorating. Keep painting. Keep rearranging the furniture and changing your mind about the curtains. Make your home beautiful in whatever way feels most like you. But don’t get so caught up in making it look perfect that you forget to enjoy the life happening inside it.

Because fourteen years later, I’ve finally realized something.

I was never really the one making this house a home.

They were.

And all along, I was simply making it beautiful for them.

Until the tide comes in,

Mary Faison, Editor