This cottage doesn’t always make sense. The wallpaper doesn’t quite meet the ceiling. The cabinet doors don’t fully align. The paint peels below the window, and the light fitting still hangs unfinished—wires exposed—waiting, like a sentence left unfinished. They’re part of the rhythm I live with and they remind me that comfort isn’t about control—it’s about fit.

The leafy wallpaper was meant to soothe. And it does, mostly. But there’s a visible gap at the top—a reminder that even gentle intentions meet resistance. I could fix it. I might. But for now, it stays. Not as a mistake, but as a pause.

The cabinet doors catch slightly when opened, sometimes they don’t close properly. But they’ve held what I needed them to hold, and that’s enough.

The wall below the window is damaged, yes. But it still holds light. And maybe that’s enough.

There’s a red hanging near the frosted glass door. It catches the light in a way that feels deliberate, even though it wasn’t. The diamond panes distort the view, but they also soften it. The flooring shifts mid-step, like the house couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

The baseboards are scuffed. The plaster is uneven. The outlet is slightly corroded. But the house holds me. And I hold it back. I used to think I’d fix everything. I can’t—not all at once. Sometimes It can feel triggering, I might leave it, but I will always come back. Decorating to a point is soothing, correcting past mistakes, making mistakes myself along the way. I need to smooth over the uneven surfaces, covering and perfecting them. Now I see things differently. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

I’m still decorating. Still adapting. But I’m also learning to live with what’s already here. To notice it. To name it. To let it be part of the archive.

Personal Note

I’m not offering services or promoting anything—just documenting a space that holds me: imperfectly, but truly.