I have always struggled with defining my “style.” I remember shopping for clothes with my mom involved finding something that was “her.” The women I admired growing up were good at this, showcasing their personal aesthetic with consistency and confidence in both their appearance and their homes. I assumed this was an ability that would develop with age, because when my mom turned to me and said, “Oh this is cute, very you,” I was at sea. It seemed so much easier to predict what was her than it was to find what was me.

It’s only now, nearly 40 years old, that I can say I have any clue about what my personal style might be — and even still, I am hesitant to label it. This is because style isn’t, in my opinion, static; if it was, I’d still be clinging to the all-black painted-on jeggings and flowy top combo that dominated my twenties. I think of style as a living, organic thing — something that evolves and changes with you at different rates throughout your life. While there are constants in my tastes over the years, they aren’t always apparent to me at the time. Every time I thought I knew what my style was, I’d later realized I was still in a discovery phase, or what novelists call “the exploratory draft.” Aka trying whatever came to mind and seeing how it worked.

“It’s only now, nearly 40 years old, that I can say I have any clue about what my personal style might be — and even still, I am hesitant to label it.”

One thing that is clear to me now is that my interest in those skinny jeans and drapey tops were a harbinger of the contrasting shapes that populate my wardrobe today. While it’s easy to think that realizing this sooner might have saved me money and time, I don’t think that’s how finding a sustainable style works. All the “wrong” things were an essential step in the process; without them, I wouldn’t feel quite so clear on what is right for me now. To go back to the novel-writing metaphor: In the first draft, you explore your story without much editing or judgment. Then you go back through and edit. It isn’t until multiple editing processes later that you could have the finished book, because you don’t always know what you’re writing when you get started. 

Which is what I’m telling myself now, as I look around the house we bought nearly eight years ago and feel that same crush of confusion and panic when my mother would hand me a top she thought was so me.  

Is this house me? I live here, that much is clear — there is abundant evidence of my domestic detritus on every surface, intermingling with my child’s scraps of artwork, stray socks, Lego pieces, and half-eaten bananas hardening on the radiator. Throw blankets are bunched next to the couch, and towels for wiping the dogs’ feet are draped over the hand-me-down bow-back kitchen chairs that came with the house from the previous owner. 

“Is this house me? I live here, that much is clear — there is abundant evidence of my domestic detritus on every surface.”

And oh, the hand-me-downs. Some are truly beautiful, like the handcrafted black walnut dining table and bench with live edge; or the hand-carved antique bar with red velvet lining and brass hinges. Not all are as well-made or lovely, but we keep them because of their convenient functionality or high use — like the extremely comfy armchair with somewhat dated yellow fabric I rescued from a friend, or the enormous architect’s drafting table I use as a desk that I bought for peanuts when the firm shuttered. It’s so heavy my husband Aaron made me swear I’d never ask him to move it again, and so even though it’s far too big for my office nook, I make it work.  

When we moved in together, Aaron and I were both working entry-level nonprofit jobs that barely paid enough to cover rent. So we got really good at scrapping and salvaging what we could find for cheap to meet our needs. 

I have a very practical streak, combined with a brain that loves a creative puzzle. If something as substantial as a piece of furniture is still functional, I am hard-pressed to get rid of it. Which is why we still own a number of storage and shelving units ubiquitous in college dorms. Instead of tossing them to the curb, I’ve learned how to properly paint laminate, attach ornamental molding, and even add cabinet doors to transform a twelve-year-old Target shelf into a coat closet. Ugly lamps? I’ve got a Pinterest board dedicated to shade upcycles and even ideas for DIYing replacements for the hideous boob flush mounts we have in almost every room. Aaron is also a fount of inspiration, though he’s slightly less discerning than I am about what we can feasibly use and what is irrevocably broken — and we have a basement full of stuff to prove it.

“It’s hard to ‘have a style’ when you’re limited to the secondhand market.”

Here’s the thing: Outfitting your home is expensive. So in addition to being crafty, we’ve also had to be frugal, choosing to thrift or hunt for bargains for most of our stuff. It’s hard to “have a style” when you’re limited to the secondhand market. We even have a not insignificant number of items we got from the curb in our neighborhood — a 12’ jute area rug, a midcentury modern green velvet sofa, and a solid wood narrow shelf that I suspect was handmade. We also have a lot of, for lack of a better word, Big Box Store stuff: An abandoned dog crate disguised to look like a sideboard that we store pillows, blankets, and toys in; a wonky bedframe we bought during the pandemic because we liked the headboard, not realizing that the cheap materials would make it a functional nightmare; so many too-small, scratchy rugs we purchased because the price was right and the colors were not hideous and we needed something to protect the floors. 

In every room, these items are mashed together to varying degrees of aesthetic success. Our walls are largely still painted in the patchy spectrum of beiges from the previous owner. Something about painting feels so final, like I need to have a clearer vision before choosing the visual anchor that will tie everything together. I haven’t been able to commit to one palette when everything always feels so in flux. 

“What I see when I look at my home is everything I can’t afford, the dozens of wallpaper prints or window treatments I can’t commit to, and someone else’s literal trash gussied up to look like something we bought on purpose.”

Instead, I’ve experimented with framed photos and artwork — some of it original, some of it thrifted, and some of it my child’s, matted and finished in antique frames. I am an eyeballer, so there are a lot of tiny nail holes that I sometimes cover up by hanging a bunch of straw hats in a cluster, hoping the mix reads as what Pinterest calls “eclectic.” To my eye, it always falls short. What I see when I look at my home is everything I can’t afford, the dozens of wallpaper prints or window treatments I can’t commit to, and someone else’s literal trash gussied up to look like something we bought on purpose. I can tidy up the mail and the toys, vacuum up dog hair, and artfully arrange little tableaus of plants, flowers, and candles all day long, but my home is still very much the product of two magpies, our overly ambitious can-do attitudes, and the guileless little critters we live with. 

Can there be a style here at all? And if there isn’t, or if I have to live with the mismatch for much, much longer than I’d like to, is it possible to still get visual pleasure out of it?

Spoiler: This is not a how-to piece, not really. Because there is no silver bullet. There isn’t one hack or secret or list that will instantly allow every single person reading this piece to reconcile the various impediments to achieving your design dreams with how it feels to live in the liminal space. Except, maybe this: What if “finishing” isn’t possible?

If our style is a moving target, then perhaps living in an “unfinished” space isn’t a temporary state. Or, maybe the work-in-progress is where the style lives. If the journey is indeed the destination, can this change the way we look at the parts that haven’t come together yet? Maybe removing the expectation that there will someday be a time when our home is “done” might make it possible to see what already is.

“If our style is a moving target, then perhaps living in an ‘unfinished’ space isn’t a temporary state.”

Another way to think about this, going back to the metaphor of writing a novel: When we set out to create art, we often start with an idea. We have a vision for the end product, however vague, plus whatever tools and skills we have to reach it. But as we go, we make discoveries. Things change. When we look over the first draft, we find that maybe what we’d initially set out to do isn’t the goal anymore. We have to alter our approach and go back through the whole thing to cut and add what we now know the work needs. We edit, edit, edit. We send it off to a reader, and we keep tinkering. Sometimes, we think we’re still working when our reader or editor tells us it’s finished.

Just one book can’t do everything the writer wanted to do. The writer has to choose the book over their own desires, cutting what isn’t needed, and tabling it for the next one. Being a writer isn’t about one book, after all — it’s about writing.

What if finding our design vision or our home “style” is like writing a novel? Instead of thinking that the process ends with one thing — one renovation, one new paint job, one furniture upgrade — we see it for what it is: One of learning and discovery that takes us from one project into the next. We’re always in progress, always editing, always refining. We might even see some flashes of something truly brilliant amidst the progress. What if personal style isn’t just the flash of brilliance, but how we find it, how we use it, and how we blend it into our lives?

“Instead of thinking that the process ends with one thing — one renovation, one new paint job, one furniture upgrade — we see it for what it is: One of learning and discovery that takes us from one project into the next.”

Here’s what I’ve learned about my design vision, after eight years living in an “unfinished” home: I am not excited by “museum homes.” If a space is styled so pristinely that setting a glass of water on a table or adding a shoe rack destroys the look, I feel nervous and uncomfortable.

I want a home I can live in, one that makes room for a stack of library books next to the sofa and a leftover bottle of wine on the bedside table from the night before. I like the little orange peels my daughter drops like confetti on her way to the trash can, and the tidy pile of used matches my husband leaves in an old yogurt pot on the bar. I like touching the three candle wax droplets on the kitchen counter, and the indentation of the letter “p” in the wood on our breakfast table where my daughter was doing her homework. People very much so live here, touching and using every surface, certain mugs and pens are always around because they are somebody’s favorite.

So while I’m sitting here, lamenting the ways I haven’t made my home look like my Pinterest board just yet, I can sense the gentle certainty that somewhere in here is something truly beautiful that’s as close to me as I’m ever going to get. Now it’s my job to keep my eyes open, so I won’t miss it.

Stephanie H. Fallon is a Contributing Editor at The Good Trade. She is a writer originally from Houston, Texas and holds an MFA from the Jackson Center of Creative Writing at Hollins University. She lives with her family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, where she writes about motherhood, artmaking, and work culture. Since 2022, she has been reviewing sustainable home and lifestyle brands, fact-checking sustainability claims, and bringing her sharp editorial skills to every product review. Say hi on Instagram or on her website.