One winter afternoon, I stood in the hallway and realized I had grown to loathe it. Not in a dramatic kind of way. More like when you outgrow something slowly. Like a stale jacket, or a shirt that starts smelling weird no matter how often it's washed.

It was claustrophobic, and there was this awkward spot where the paint peeled like dry pastry. Just a wall. But somehow it felt like it was part of the issue. Of what? No idea. Everything, maybe.

I didn't set out to renovate. I planned to fix the peeling. Maybe clean the skirting. Then I removed a bit of trim, and underneath… well. Swirly beige. Looked like it was printed by someone on drugs. The kind of wallpaper that makes you step back.

And that's how it begins. You pull one thread, and the house responds like it was ready.

Next thing I knew, I was arguing about things I'd never thought existed. Backing compound. I developed strong opinions 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 aesthetic updates. It was about realizing something didn't fit, and that I was ready to fix it. 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 towel rail more info upside down and didn't notice for three Sundays in a row. 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 not borrowed anymore. That wall? Still narrow. And the paint line by the stairs? Wobbly. But it's something I chose.

It's not about trend boards. It's about saying no to busted plastic chairs. If you mess up, just call it character. That's what I do. Or at least that's what I tell guests.