Having A Minimalistic Home Killed My Vibe

Being "Beige" didn't bring me peace or contentment.

At some point in the last few years, minimalism became the holy grail of home aesthetics. It’s touted across social media platforms by influencers selling the idea that the aesthetic brings about a sense of mental clarity and peace. Consisting of smooth white or beige surfaces, one artfully-placed ceramic vase, a coffee table with exactly one candle and one coffee table book that—let’s be real— nobody actually ever fucking reads. The homes are always picturesque—clean and minimal, with nothing out of place—almost like nobody even lives there. So how exactly does this un-fuck your brain? By getting rid of everything and painting the rest beige. The idea was sold to me. So I tried it—And you know what? I fucking hated it.

Minimalism made my house look something like a modernized hotel lobby. Beautiful? to some. But soulless? Absolutely.

There was nothing warm about it. It didn’t feel like home, it felt like I was trying to impress someone who wasn’t even coming over. I'm an introvert so who was I even trying to impress? The walls were bare. The counters were naked—God forbid anyone see my baby pink Kitchen-Aid. I ironically felt more cluttered inside. Because the space didn’t reflect my personality. It erased it.

And worse? It killed my creativity.

I didn’t realize how much inspiration I drew from my environment until I took it all away. Suddenly, I didn’t feel the urge to write, or rearrange a corner, or start a new DIY project. I wasn’t daydreaming the way I used to. I wasn’t playing with pops of color or moving furniture around for funsies. The emptiness around me started seeping into me. The silence wasn’t peaceful the way they said it would be—it was boring and sterile.

I need a space that sparks something in me.

So now, I love a cluttered home. Not hoarder clutter. Not “I can’t find the cat in this bitch” clutter. I’m talking about a lived in, loved on, we made memories here kind of home.

I want color—I'm still in the process of getting rid of my "millennial grey" walls. I want the little knick-knacks that commemorate the trips we’ve taken. I want that random ceramic frog that my kid made in art class on the shelf next to a photo of them with ice cream on their faces. I want cozy, colorful throw blankets in every corner (I fucking love throw blankets), a fridge covered in magnets adorning my kids’ artwork, and a chaotic bookshelf that says, “Yes, I read—and sometimes I just collect pretty book covers, leave me the hell alone.”

Good clutter tells a story.

It tells a story about family and the people that live here. That joy and chaos and conversations happened in this room. That holidays were celebrated here. That sick days were comforted. That laughter echoed through the hallway and tiny feet ran across that rug.

These days, I find myself adding to my space instead of subtracting. Not because I’m chasing more “stuff,” but because every little thing that I add makes this place feel more like me. A plant here, a cozy lamp there—and suddenly the room feels more alive, and so do I.

There might be some toy cars under the couch and little Minecraft people lined up on the window sill because that’s where my toddler decided that they belong. Yes, sometimes I step on a Lego and curse whoever bought them—but that’s just part of the magic of a lived-in home.

But let me be clear—just because I don’t have a curated “aesthetic” anymore doesn’t mean that I don’t care. I really do.

I still like it clean. I like things to be well organized and to have their own space. I like the feeling of walking into a room that’s been tidied up after a long day. I do find comfort in order—because that’s what truly un-fucks my brain—but not in rigidity. I don’t need every room to match or every corner to be magazine-worthy. I just need it to feel good. I need it to feel inviting.

And sometimes “feeling good” looks like organized chaos, where the couch is covered in an assorted size of throw pillows that don’t match and the shelves are overflowing with personality instead of perfection.

My home is not a showroom. It’s not Instagram worthy. It’s not sterile. It’s not staged. It’s mine.

And if there are dishes in the sink a little longer and toys strewn across the floor? That just means life is happening here. Love is happening here. Creativity is thriving here. My pink Kitchen-Aid deserves a space where it can be admired—because dammit, the color brings me joy and I kind of bought it just to look at it.

So to anyone who feels like your home should be perfectly minimalist and trendy—don’t. Your house doesn’t need to be "Pinterest perfect" to be perfect for you.

A cluttered home is not a mess. It’s a memory in progress. It's a heartbeat signaling that there's life.

And honestly? That’s the most beautiful aesthetic of all.