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I often envision that stepping into my home office is akin to gliding into a tropical sunset. The walls are painted a warm peach — not the trendy Millennial pink, but a hue kissed by golden sunlight. It’s playful and vibrant. There are beach-themed paintings, a few plants, and a shelf filled with books. It brings me peace. Or it would, if I didn’t have two large patches of exposed drywall, shaped like otters, greeting me every time I sit down to work.
In a moment of organization spurred by endless scrolling through DesignerGram, I yanked a stick-on bulletin board off the wall, inadvertently taking a chunk of the wall with it. After some half-hearted attempts at repair, I shrugged it off and moved on. Now, every time I see the exposed drywall, I think, “I should probably fix that someday.” However, it’s not just this one wall; my entire home is a bit frayed around the edges.
There’s the front door handle that jiggles precariously every time I use it. The screen has a hole in it, and the kitchen window flies open with the enthusiasm of a presenter at a corporate seminar. More than once, I’ve spotted bunnies darting from beneath our deck, leading me to suspect they’ve taken up residence in our backyard. What I mean to say is, there are countless small annoyances around the house that are either broken or only partially functional — and I’m in no hurry to fix them.
Many of the spaces we see online and in glossy magazines look pristine because they are deliberately crafted to project a particular image. As numerous Instagram creators admit, the reality beyond the frame often involves Cheerios scattered on the floor, closets overflowing with old coats, and rooms that aren’t quite finished. Having spent time in design media, I understand the extensive effort (and sometimes expense) that goes into creating a curated photo. While I can appreciate the creativity behind these social media masterpieces, I no longer strive for that kind of perfection in real life. Like many stories, Instagram-worthy spaces only reveal part of the narrative.
Growing up, my home was certainly not featured in Home & Garden. It was cluttered with a lifetime of accumulated items from generations of immigrants, often dusty, and filled with broken things—like answering machines from the 80s and old dishwashers. But I was happy there, perhaps even because of it. We weren’t a home improvement family; if anything, we embraced the gradual decline of our living space. We used our home, and yes, we broke things, often adapting to the inconveniences until we saved enough for repairs. I didn’t know any different back then. To me, a home is meant to be in a state of change.
I recently read a novel about a house literally crumbling around its occupants. I’m talking about exposed gaps in the brick that let icicles form in winter. This physical decay mirrored the family’s own dysfunction. After finishing the book, I began to regard the odd, broken things in my home with apprehension — does that old watermark mean our ceiling is about to collapse? I hear scurrying in the walls; is this the night squirrels will invade?
In truth, I don’t usually notice these small irritations unless we have guests over, or unless I’m absorbed in a mildly dystopian domestic drama. Over time, they blend into the backdrop of my life. I could dedicate a weekend to fixing everything at a hardware store (a waking nightmare for someone as unhandy as I am), but I prefer to enjoy the freedom of my spare time.
I could spend hours dealing with a screen replacement company or simply grab some ice cream sandwiches and draw chalk rainbows with my child. I could replace the cabinet handle that swings precariously, or I could indulge in a long bath while catching up on my favorite show. For some, these choices may seem trivial or even irresponsible. Yet, for me, they are the kind of small decisions that allow me to shift my anxious mind from the imperfections in my home to the things that truly matter — my family and our love for one another.
Many of us reside in imperfect spaces, and we don’t just survive; we flourish. Some of us are fortunate that the broken elements in our homes are relatively minor annoyances for those with perfectionist tendencies. Even though we could fix everything (there are just so many things!), sometimes we choose not to. Life is made up of countless small exchanges. Time spent on repairs could be time dedicated to hobbies, dinner parties, and pondering the bunnies that seem to be taking over our yard. And I feel confident that I’ve made the right choice in those moments.
Of course, when significant issues arise, like a broken air conditioning unit or a malfunctioning washing machine, we take action (which usually means hiring someone else to handle it, since I’m not handy). But the smaller problems? I’m okay leaving them for now. Maybe one day I’ll find my spackle and search for that old can of peachy-pink paint in the basement. But for today, I’ll open that stubborn kitchen window and inhale the fresh air. For all our domestic flaws, one thing my family excels at is simply living in our home. After all, isn’t it true? Home is where the imperfections are.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, Lila Tran embraces the imperfections of her home, highlighting the numerous small annoyances she chooses to overlook in favor of spending quality time with her family. She contrasts her lived experience with the curated spaces often showcased online, suggesting that happiness can thrive even in less-than-perfect environments. Ultimately, she advocates for prioritizing meaningful moments over the relentless pursuit of perfection.