I live in an inartistic home. An inelegant home.
There’s no touch of an interior designer here. No curated corners or Pinterest aesthetics.
It’s a one-storey patio house with two rooms. No carpet, just shiny raw mosaic floors that reflect everything and soften nothing.
When I first walked in, I was disappointed. I had imagined something different.
To me, every American house looked white, clean, and Scandinavian. Classy in a way I associated with comfort.
Mine didn’t.
The kitchen cabinets squeak. They’re painted in the ugliest shade of brown.
The washer and dryer are tucked into the bathroom.
The driveway stretches out awkwardly, long and deserted.
The walls are so thin we can hear our neighbours breathe.
But this house, this house became my home.
Not because it was beautiful.
But because we were here.
Two girls in our early twenties. Coming home from long days in the lab. Having dinner, playing music, sharing everything from politics to science, from heartbreak to hope.
We speak in English because it’s the only language we share.
Our families live thousands of miles away. But our dreams brought us here.
As you enter, the first thing you’ll see is a shoe rack of muddy boots and worn sneakers.
They’ve carried heavy Walmart bags, groceries during snowstorms, and the weight of difficult days.
The kitchen counters hold mismatched, recycled containers with contents that contradict their labels.
The dining table came from Facebook Marketplace: cheap, wobbly, and absolutely perfect.
It’s always full of chocolates, cookies, and lollies. Sometimes a packet of Cheetos sneaks in.
It’s the kind of table that’s more about comfort than symmetry.
A corner of the living room has plants some gifted, some rescued.
There’s a mattress lying on the futon and another right next to it.
We don’t follow the rules of interior design. We follow the rules of making it work.
The coffee table is covered in ancient mail.
The patio opens to a tall wooden wall that blocks nothing, not even the cold.
There’s a makeshift dressing table actually a lawn table that barely holds any makeup.
The bedside table is cluttered with gifts from loved ones and vision boards we never follow.
The study table is mostly decorative.
The coat hanger is full of coats that never make it to the closet.
The fridge? It once served a detailed meal plan.
Now it holds mismatched leftovers and unspoken memories.
Wine bottles collected for painting. Not one has been touched.
Tea boxes near the stove. Fridge magnets that whisper reminders.
Plates meant for guests are now used daily.
The fire alarm above the stove goes off religiously.
Next to the coat hanger, a flag of Nepal stands tall.
And the doorlock jams every other day.
But we jiggle it, push it, and laugh because that’s just part of it now.
This home may not match.
The curtains don’t speak to the furniture. The countertops don’t speak at all.
But the people here do.
And they listen.
This is a home where people leave traces of their character.
Where nothing is curated but everything is meaningful.
Where two young women are carving out a life far from the people who raised them.
It’s a home where one of us stands at the counter cooking, and the other always finds her place on the bar stool just to keep company.
A home where “I’m coming home, can you warm some food for me?” is one of the kindest things you can hear.
A home of mismatched dishes and a thousand little dreams.
A home that understands what the word safe truly means.
To anyone trying to make it away from their family I hope you live in a home.
It doesn’t have to be polished.
Let your carpet not match your lamp.
Let your roommate bring home weird furniture or art that you’d never pick.
Let it become what it wants to become.
Let the mismatched mugs, the old calendars, the pile of laundry and the perfume-soaked pillows speak.
Let your home smell like two cultures, feel like conversations, and echo with stories.
Let it have a personality.
Like you.
And may it always feel like coming back to something good.
