One winter afternoon, I stood in the hallway and realized I had grown to loathe it. Not in a meltdown-level kind of way. More like when you resent something slowly. Like a stale jacket, or a shirt that always feels damp.

It was claustrophobic, and there was this awkward spot where the paint peeled like dry pastry. Just a wall. But somehow it felt like it was part of the reason things felt wrong. Of what? No idea. Everything, maybe.

I didn't set out to renovate. I planned to patch that spot. Maybe clean the skirting. Then I removed a bit of trim, and underneath… well. Orange and brown. Looked like it was straight out of the ‘70s. The kind of wallpaper that makes you step back.

And that's how it begins. You pull one thread, and the house responds like it was plotting.

Next thing I knew, I was arguing about things I'd never thought existed. Architrave. I developed strong opinions for paint swatches. I watched videos like it was a sport. Still don't know why one caulking gun's $12 and another's $48, but I'll fight you over which is better.

But this wasn't just about aesthetic updates. It was about realizing something wasn't home anymore, and that I was ready to fix it. I used to avoid a creaky floorboard by the bathroom even after I fixed it. Muscle memory is a prank more info like that.

Some days went well. Some didn't. I once installed a towel rail upside down and didn't notice for three Sundays in a row. Only realized it when my sister flipped it and asked why “off” turned the light *on*.

But that's the point, isn't it?. You laugh, and then suddenly the space feels… yours. Not perfect. Not staged. But not borrowed anymore. That wall? Still narrow. And the paint line by the stairs? Wobbly. But it's something I chose.

It's not about what your neighbour just did. It's about saying no to stuff that makes you sigh at 7am. If you hang the art too high, just call it character. That's what I do. Or at least that's what I tell guests.