When my marriage unraveled, so did the vision I had for my home life. I found myself staring out the tiny window of a small second-floor apartment. It was barren and unassuming, but it was mine — a space where, for the first time in over a decade, I could make my own decisions, including how to decorate.
Friends helped me move my basic belongings and brought thoughtful gifts — tea, houseplants, and freshly baked bread — but the sudden change left me with a heavy sense of uncertainty about the future. I mourned the life I’d built for my three children and questioned how this small rental, with its white walls and creaky floors, could ever feel like home. Leaving our spacious four-bedroom family house, with its garage and basement packed with the remnants of a busy, adventure-filled life, felt daunting.
Starting over in a new home was overwhelming
For years, I had tucked away plastic tubs of long-forgotten toys, baby clothes, preschool artwork, and other keepsakes. I imagined one day, far in the future, I’d sit on the floor and revisit it all once my youngest child had grown. Instead, the task came suddenly, with me sitting in the living room, deciding what to keep and what to let go. Crafts the kids had made, old photos, school artwork — each piece tangled with emotion.
At first, downsizing felt like a loss. But as I unpacked, it became an opportunity. Friends didn’t just move furniture; they helped me create a space true to my sensibilities and visions for my future. They brought lamps, rugs, and kitchen goods, finding pieces in their homes or in their orbits that “felt like me.” One friend gifted me a round cream-colored mirror with intricate vine-like patterns, while another shared a link to an upcycled warm golden velvet chair, which eventually found its home in the corner of my new bedroom next to my bookcase.
One special piece of furniture helped me see the vision
Then, my best friend sent me a photo of a vintage mid-century sofa with bold pink floral upholstery. It clicked immediately. That playful piece became the centerpiece of my fresh start — a reminder that even one meaningful choice can spark rebuilding. Friends graciously and surprisingly chipped in to help me buy it, and when it arrived, we carefully carried it up the narrow staircase. “She’s perfect,” I said as my friend experienced the honor of taking the first seat.
From there, it was a cascade. I began seeking out kitschy, grandmotherly furnishings — pieces that brought comfort and nostalgia, like stepping into a cozy living room from the 1970s, minus the plastic couch coverings. I dug through bins of my late grandmother’s belongings, placing her crystal candy dish and my parents’ communion cup on the built-in kitchen shelving. These objects, rooted in family and memory, brought me comfort and connection.
When my kids visit, I hope these small touches bring them the same sense of belonging. I’m working toward a larger place with room for them, but this time, I’ll have a different approach, extending this new way of curating a home into the next. I kept only what felt grounding: my children’s drawings and artwork, a psychedelic painting from 1972 that once hung in my dad’s old office, and books I re-read that have carried me through hard times.
Rebuilding my home became an act of self-discovery
I learned I loved warm tones, vintage-bohemian influences, cozy textures, and plants — so many plants. I embraced more open space, appreciating how it could feel intentional. The gifts I received mirrored my growing sense of self and playfulness: a whimsical horse-head lamp from my boyfriend, hand-knitted drink coasters from my best friend. Decorating my own space became an act of self-discovery.
The process taught me that my home could reflect who I was becoming, not just who I had been. Rebuilding my home became a metaphor for rebuilding myself — one deliberate choice at a time.
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