I like to think of homes as a true reflection of who we are. The trinkets collected and displayed, the worn cushion on our favorite spot on the couch, even the wattage of lightbulbs all suggests something about who we are. Our homes reveal what we want to live in and come home to after time away.
That’s exactly why I like peeking through people’s windows on my daily evening walk, neighborhood home tours, and HGTV. There’s almost nothing I love more than a well-lived-in home that feels unmistakable like its owner. My friend Sydney’s house is covered in framed concert posters and plants tucked into every corner. Lucy’s is a gallery of her artist mother’s vintage work and her grandma’s quilts and photo strips and polaroids. My mom’s is full of well-cushioned couches, my mediocre high school pottery, family portraits rotating through her digital frame, and lots of Frenchie-covered throw blankets. Even though it’s no longer the house I grew up in, it still feels like home.
My own house reflects who I am quite nicely—tasteful, a little moody, tidy but not super clean, and old. The house is almost 100, which I’ve been told is the age of my soul since I was about seven. None of my kitchen cabinets close just right and I’m not sure there’s a straight line anywhere in it. A right angle? Can’t count on it.
Another charming feature of a 1930s home is plaster. It adds beautiful, hard-to-replicate (and paint) texture and character. The only time I hate the plaster is when I’m hammering into it, which is constant because I’m the proud curator of a gallery wall in the corner of my dining room. Decorative at first glance, it’s the most vulnerable part of my home. If you want to catch a glimpse of my soul, all you need to do is take a close look.
There’s framed sheet music from our wedding nestled right under a large, old photograph of my grandmother and my namesake christening a boat with a bottle of champagne. Above that is a five by seven photo of my other grandma jumping in a pile of leaves at eighty-five years old—a reminder to never lose your childlike playfulness. Mixed in are silly little trinkets that only mean something to me. A little plastic monkey I kept from a cocktail I drank during a trip to Hawaii with my sisters, a replica of my first car gifted to me thoughtfully by my brother-in-law, shot glasses from my collection that I started at an inappropriately young age.
Hanging at the top is a handcrafted stained glass panel of the hardest hike I’ve ever done. On the table in my dining room, waiting for its home, is a vintage book on the history of the York Minster I picked up during my recent travels.
None of these items were expensive, and most would look like trash on their own. But because they mean something to me, they get added to the wall. As I collect more memories, adventures, and mementos, the gallery grows.
While there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a white kitchen or grey walls (I understand some people prefer simplicity and calm), what makes a house feel like a home are the things collected over time. Well-collected and well-placed junk is not junk at all. It’s what makes your home feel like you. It’s the reason your friend smiles when they walk in the door.
Julia is a 2018 graduate and studied English literature and business marketing during her time at Calvin. A Chicagoland native, she now resides in Grand Rapids, MI and works as a brand and marketing officer. She spends her free time reading fantasy novels, sweating in her gym’s sauna, renovating her almost 100-year-old house, and crafting according to her current creative fixation.
