Walls of White, Heart of Color: Redesigning Life After Loss

From Mid-Century to Mystery: Discovering My Aesthetic Voice

How are you supposed to redo your house when you have no idea what your style is anymore? I think the better question to ask myself is, “Did I ever have a style that was my own, or was it always the style of others?”

My husband was firmly in the mid-century, sleek lines, bold colors, strong artwork camp — which I grew to love immensely, but it’s has never been totally me. My grandmother, country — think lace curtains and doilies. My mother - a mix of country and contemporary — lace curtains, doilies, contemporary paint schemes and some contemporary furniture. I can go on and on. All very strong feelings that I did not have a lot of wiggle room on. Ever. Due to sharing a room with my sister, having a childhood bedroom that was uniquely my own was also not a thing as she would have protested greatly. She’s also very country in her personal aesthetic. I mean, we are Appalachian.

Photo by Janelle Hiroshige on Unsplash

When Tony had been gone for a year, I posted on Bluesky that the kid was going back to school and it was almost one year of widowhood and that there was a lesson to learn there. Ms. Beverly Jenkins, the celebrated romance novelist, responded out of the blue and shared her own story of being widowed young and gave me the two pieces of advice I think that every widow with an empty nest needs to hear: you only have to please yourself now and it is time to start making your nest your own.

Dear, Ms. Beverly, I have been trying for 18 months. But I realized yesterday, sitting in the chair at the hair salon half-asleep, for once not trying to keep up with the political conversations happening around me, is that I do not know my decorating style. Even if I did, I know that my clothing style changed after the loss of my husband, so I’m sure this is an exercise for all widows. Keeping our home a shrine to him is not an option. Mainly because it is not healthy for anyone’s mental health. I’m not a therapist, but I suspect this is what mine would say.

Photo by Alberto Castillo Q. on Unsplash

I would hire my friend to come here and help. But she in London and that’s an expensive flight, she’s highly sought after in the UK and abroad, and it is not safe for her to come here to the US. There has been so much fuckery towards foreign visitors who are on vacation that I would never dare risk this.

That said, I have resorted to paper lists and saved images on Instagram and Pinterest. What color is my base color? The walls will be white because of artwork and purchased and personal photography (I let more be known about me everyday), but the main living space is an open plan kitchen, living, and dining and the entire back wall windows. I’m lucky to have so much light that I don’t want to dim it, but at the same time, I know I’m not soft either. While deep in my soul I want to be person who surrounds herself with soft blues and greens, it’s just not me. No matter how much I want to wish it to be true.

In a world where the House of Representatives is passing anti-voting legislation to help disenfranchise millions of women voters, this should not be at the forefront of my mind. I have coffee and spite time every morning where I sit down and make calls to my representatives and write letters before starting my work day. But I also work from home and have for going on twenty years. So it’s time to really make my nest my own, lucky I can do it a little at a time, while the world burns around me and everyone I know. To make it a haven of solitude where I can sit and be free knowing I have done this for myself and no one else. To be selfish for a little while.

Photo by Spacejoy on Unsplash

I have been told there is wisdom in creating a personal sanctuary. Wisdom and freedom. A place where I can cocoon and let my creative spirit run wild. Perhaps finding my style isn’t about looking to find what has always been there, but in creating something new. A visual language of who I am now, who I am becoming, rather than who I have been. By rebuilding my home around me, I am also rebuilding this new person in an act that is part rebellion, part healing.

My nest may take shape slowly, with each decision a small act of self-definition, but it will be unmistakably mine. And in a world that seems increasingly determined to silence voices like mine, creating a space that amplifies my own feels not just selfish, but necessary.