Back in 2019, I stood in the hallway and realized I couldn't stand it. Not in a “burn it down” kind of way. More like when you resent something slowly. Like your old phone case, or a shirt that always feels damp.

It was tight, and there was this weird patch where the paint flaked like sunburn. Just a wall. But somehow it felt like it was part of the weight. Of what? No idea. Everything, maybe.

I didn't set out to redo the house. I planned to repaint. Maybe change the bulb. Then I removed a bit of trim, and underneath… well. Bold paisley. Looked like it was printed by someone on drugs. The kind of wallpaper that makes you step back.

And that's when things spiral. You pull one thread, and the house sighs like it was plotting.

Next thing I knew, I was Googling things I'd never cared about. Architrave. I developed obsessions for skirting board profiles. I watched videos like it was a sport. Still don't know why one caulking gun's $12 and another's $48, but I'll fight you over which is better.

But this wasn't just about fixing things. It was about realizing something wasn't home anymore, and that I was done adjusting. I used to avoid a creaky floorboard by the bathroom even after I fixed it. Muscle memory is a prank like that.

Some days went well. Some didn't. I once installed a light switch upside down and didn't notice for ages. Only realized it when my sister flipped it and asked why “off” turned the light *on*.

But that's the point, isn't it?. You laugh, and then suddenly the space feels… yours. Not perfect. Not staged. But more info not borrowed anymore. That wall? Still narrow. And the paint line by the stairs? Wobbly. But it's earned.

It's not about trend boards. It's about saying no to busted plastic chairs. If you hang the art too high, just patch it. That's what I do. Or at least that's what I tell guests.