The Magic of Slow Decorating After Survival Mode
I didn’t know I was allowed to feel safe.
I grew up in survival mode. Not metaphorically. Not “wow, childhood was tough” in the vague, TikTok way. I mean real survival. Like hunger. Like being passed between homes. Like hearing adults say they didn’t want me. Like being called a burden. Like having my safety depend on how silent I could be.
It trains your whole body to be on edge all the time. You don’t remember any good things because your brain can’t hold memories. It’s too busy surviving.
And I carried that into adulthood like it was my job.
I didn’t decorate in my early adult years. I moved often. I picked what was cheap, practical, and “fine.” My spaces were clean and lifeless. Even when I finally had a little money, I couldn’t justify spending it on anything “unnecessary.” And beauty…softness, comfort, light? All of that felt wildly unnecessary. And not intended for me.
I didn’t know how to pick art.
I didn’t trust myself to paint a wall.
I didn’t hang things I loved because… what if I had to leave? What if it wasn’t safe tomorrow? What if joy was a trap?
No one tells you that when you grow up in instability, even the act of decorating your home can feel terrifying.
It asks questions like:
— What do you like?
— What feels good to you?
— What makes you feel held?
And if you’ve never been given the space to answer those questions, it’s disorienting.
Painful, even.
But then, somewhere in my thirties, while raising kids and running businesses and going through new cycles of burnout and grief, I cracked. I realized I was tired of living like a guest in my own life.
So I started small.
One object.
One piece of handmade art.
One thrifted thing that made me feel like someone out there also survived.
I let myself want something. I let myself like something.
And then I put it on a shelf.
And then I didn’t apologize for it.
That’s what I mean by slow decorating. Not a Pinterest board. Not a shopping spree.
A quiet rebellion.
A shelf that says, “This is my space now. I get to feel good in it.”
A window prism that says, “You are allowed to have joy, even on the days you still dissociate.”
A weird little mushroom lamp that says, “You’re safe here now. You don’t have to sleep with your shoes on.”
It’s not just design. It’s nervous system repair.
It’s choosing softness on purpose, even if it takes years to know what that means.
If you’ve been surviving for too long and don’t know where to start: start slow.
Start with light. Start with one thing that feels like yours. Start with a corner, not the whole house.
This isn’t about aesthetics.
It’s about letting your body believe you’re safe.
Even when you’re still figuring it out.
Even when it’s messy.
Even when you're scared to want more.
You don’t have to earn the right to feel good in your home.
