It was getting late, and the movers still hadn’t arrived with the beds or the crib, so I tucked my three kids (5, 2, and 11 months) into bed on an air mattress on the floor of an otherwise empty bedroom.
I wanted to tell the kids that, once everything was set up, their room wouldn’t look so bland. But the truth was, even with all of our belongings moved in, we’d only have the essentials.
I’d sold a lot of furniture and decor ahead of the move (both to get some extra cash and make the moving process less strenuous). Plus, my ex was keeping some of our shared possessions. When all was said and done, I was down to the basics.
After the kids fell asleep, I stood in my new empty living room. I realized this: At 34, I was starting over.
I met my husband when we were 17
My husband and I met when we were 17 and were together for the next 17 years. We always used to say we were lucky to have met so early and grown up together. We thought we’d be together forever.
But somewhere along the way, things changed. It wasn’t that we argued all the time or didn’t love each other. It was just that we’d become different people. The 17-year-old versions of ourselves were a perfect match. But I guess the 34-year-old versions weren’t. It seemed smarter to just focus on being good parents and great friends.
But there was still so much to figure out. I had to decide how I was going to transition from stay-at-home mom to breadwinner. I needed to learn how to manage all household to-do lists on my own. Plus, I wanted to focus on the kids and help them through this massive change.
It was daunting and emotional. But I could take it day by day. My first task was figuring out a landing zone.
I wanted to start fresh
I could’ve stayed in the townhome my ex and I bought four years before, but I wanted to start fresh in a new place where I could make new memories. A blank slate.
So we put the place on the market, and I moved closer to my mom, where I could lean on her as both a babysitter and a shoulder to cry on. I focused on my first big project: making my new home feel like a warm, nurturing place for my kids and me.
We had what we needed: beds, a couch, a small dining table from one friend, and a living room rug from another. I got my blank slate — but maybe it was too blank.
We had a lot of clothes with no drawers to put them in, books with no bookshelves, and a lot of empty walls.
The walls bothered me the most. Our old place was covered in wedding pictures and smiling family photos, and while I’ll admit they made me sad as my marriage was unraveling, they were still reminders of happy times. At the very least, they brought color to the rooms.
Meanwhile, these new, empty walls felt sterile and a little intimidating.
So I started hanging things up.
I wanted our place to feel like home
My daughter’s preschool art pieces skipped the fridge and were lovingly affixed above the couch with painter’s tape. I went to thrift stores and sifted through all the frames and paintings, finding some gems for around $10 each. I also collected mirrors to make the rooms look bigger and brighter.
Then my mom offered up a box of old art pieces I’d done in elementary school and high school, and even some oils I’d made in a college class.
I’ll admit: they aren’t masterpieces. But they were both free and cute. I was glad to display the watercolor of a cat I made when I was 10, among others. Why not? I wasn’t trying to impress anyone with a magazine-ready “grown-up house.” I just wanted it to feel homey. Plus, it was nice to connect with a younger, pre-relationship version of me. It was nice to remember who she was.
Pictures of the kids were also easy wall decorations, but I swapped framed snaps of me and my ex with a silly picture of me with Pooh Bear at Disneyland and a treasured shot of me meeting Hollywood icon Dick Van Dyke. “Look,” I told a friend when she came to visit, “it’s the men in my life.”
Furniture was the next project.
With the walls covered, I went online for some secondhand furniture. I was tired of sitting on the laminate floor whenever I played with the kids, so I searched mainly for chairs and rugs.
I thought this would be an easy task, but after browsing listings on Facebook Marketplace, I was confused. I didn’t know what I wanted.
The problem was that my husband had such a great sense of style, so I always let him pick our furniture and decor. And it worked out: I loved his clean, midcentury vibe. But was it what I’d pick if left to my own devices? I wasn’t sure.
At first, I tried to search for the clean lines and angles I was used to, but after a few days of searching, I found more whimsical stuff caught my eye. I ended up driving 20 minutes to pick up a pink velvety chair. There was a green bookshelf I simply had to have. It was stuff I never would’ve looked at before the move, but now, I was leaning into more girly, softer styles.
I used my cat watercolor as my guide. Whenever I looked at it, with its earthy tones and cozy, soft vibe, I felt a warm sense of pride and familiarity. Maybe this was my style. Or at least a small version of it.
It’s a work in progress
Now, it’s only been eight months since we moved, since the reset, and the place is finally starting to feel like home. There are pictures on the wall, furniture I love, and a lot of noise and activity. My kids seem comfortable and happy. And I do too. There’s something great about starting over, starting from nearly scratch, and ending up with something good.
But of course, the place isn’t perfect. Some corners still feel sparse, and I’ve got some fixes and changes on my to-do list. It’s a work in progress; I think it might be for years. And maybe right now I’m a work in progress, too. That’s OK.
Recently, my mom came over after a long weekend of hanging pictures and arranging furniture. “Wow, you’re really moved in now!” she said. “It looks good.”
I thanked her but said I wanted to hang some floating shelves and swap some paintings around. She interrupted and wrapped an arm around me.
“Really, you’ve done a good job,” she said. “I love it.”
I looked around, feeling proud, “I do too.”
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