Weird Is Welcome Here

There was an article in The Washington Post this past week about an Instagram account called “your home isn’t weird enough.” The premise? Stop worrying about what other people think and start making design choices that reflect your actual aesthetic - no matter how eclectic, unexpected, or delightfully offbeat.

I read it and thought, Yes. A thousand times yes.

But I’d like to take it one step further. Not only should we feel brave enough to decorate our homes in ways that reflect our personality, we should feel just as bold about using our homes in ways that actually support the lives we are living inside them.

Because here’s the thing no one tells you when you become an adult: there is no Home Police. No one is issuing citations because your dining room is now a craft explosion headquarters or because your guest room quietly retired and became a Peloton sanctuary sometime around 2021.

Case in point:

My husband once told me about a family in his neighborhood growing up. One afternoon he went over to play and discovered, much to his shock and delight, that this family kept a plastic swimming pool full of guinea pigs right in the middle of their very small living room.

Not adjacent to the living room. Not tucked discreetly in a corner.

Middle. Of. The. Room.

The space was so tight that if you sat on the couch, your feet had to go into the guinea pig pool unless you tucked them underneath you like a polite flamingo.

Reader, I have never met this woman, but I would like to nominate her immediately for Patron Saint of Brave Mom-ing.

When I first heard this story, I was deep in the stage of motherhood where my house looked like a preschool had collided with a sporting goods store and then exploded glitter everywhere. I constantly wrestled with the tension between wanting a calm, adult-looking home and the reality that small humans come with beeping toys, art projects, seventeen blankets, and a snack inventory that could sustain a minor hiking expedition.

But more than the clutter, I worried about perception.

Would people think I was disorganized? Too kid-centric? Not kid-centric enough? (Motherhood is nothing if not a masterclass in impossible standards.)

The idea of doing something as unapologetically child-forward as installing a rodent-filled swimming pool in my living room felt about as likely as me joining Cirque du Soleil.

And yet… the bravery of that mystery mom lingered in my imagination.

Years later, we bought a house we loved, except for one unnecessary feature for us: a media room. The builder had gone all-in on the theater vibe with dark purple-brown walls, dramatic sconces, and enough electrical outlets to power a small concession stand.

We did what any practical family who doesn’t really want a media room would do.

We used it as air-conditioned storage.

For years.

Eventually, as our kids grew (and continued the annoying habit of needing places to sleep), we converted that windowless, closet-less media cave into a bedroom.

Logically, I knew it was fine.

Emotionally? I worried people would think it was weird.

Isn’t it fascinating how quickly we can become uncomfortable the moment we color outside the imaginary architectural lines?

Meanwhile, somewhere out there is Guinea Pig Mom, living completely unbothered.

Here’s what I’ve come to believe: our homes should adjust to us, not the other way around.

If you live in community (which I hope you do) and you open your doors to others (which I also hope you do), the temptation is real to curate your home so you appear like Normal, Well-Adjusted People Who Definitely Have Matching Towels.

But the truer invitation is this: build a home that tells the truth about your life.

So what’s your weird?

Is it a fearless paint color? A floor-to-ceiling LEGO display? A grand piano in the dining room? A reading nook where a coat closet once stood? A treadmill parked unapologetically in the family room because that’s the only place you’ll actually use it?

Or yes - perhaps - a plastic baby pool full of guinea pigs.

Whatever it is, let me reassure you of something important: most of us are not walking into your home with a clipboard of silent judgment.

We’re marveling.

We’re thinking, Oh, how clever.
Oh, how freeing.
Oh… maybe I could do that too.

Because bold homes give the rest of us permission to live a little more honestly.

So let’s be brave enough to make our spaces unmistakably ours, reflective not of a Pottery Barn catalog, but of the beautiful, noisy, meaningful lives unfolding inside them.

After all, the goal was never perfection.

The goal was always belonging.

And nothing says you belong here quite like a home that couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else.