The Filter Trap
The cursor hovers, a tiny, indecisive ghost between three buttons. ‘Modern Farmhouse.’ ‘Industrial.’ ‘Mid-Century Modern.’ My screen presents these as the only valid starting points for a life, as if every human soul can be neatly funneled into one of three aesthetic categories designed by a committee. Choosing one feels like a commitment I’m not ready for. Choosing none means I can’t filter, and I’m faced with a digital warehouse of 19,999 items. So I click. And immediately, I feel smaller.
This is the silent trap, the little paper cut of modern consumerism. It starts with a quiz. ‘What’s Your Personal Style?’ the headline chirps, promising self-discovery in 9 clicks. I answered honestly. I like natural textures, yes. I prefer neutral palettes but with pops of color, sure. I appreciate both clean lines and cozy clutter. The machine whirred and spat out my identity: ‘Scandi-Boho.’
The Scandi-Boho Cage
The Mustard Liberation
I’m going to tell you something I did this morning, and it has everything to do with this. I cleaned out my refrigerator. Way in the back, behind a questionable jar of olives, was a bottle of fancy Dijon mustard. The expiration date was from 2009. I have moved apartments four times with this expired mustard. It felt important, gourmet, a remnant of a person I thought I was supposed to be-someone who casually makes vinaigrette from scratch. I’m not that person. I’m a person who uses the mustard that comes in the yellow squeeze bottle.
Building Stories, Not Styles
My friend Alex J. is a dollhouse architect. He spends his days in a workshop that smells of sawdust and glue, creating exquisitely detailed miniature worlds. I once watched him spend 49 hours aging a single, thumbnail-sized leather armchair. When I asked him what “style” the house was, he just looked at me blankly. He said, “It’s the house where the retired sea captain lives. The one who misses his wife and secretly reads poetry.” The house had a sleek, modern kitchen from a recent renovation, but the study was filled with dark, imposing furniture from 99 years ago. It didn’t make sense from a catalog perspective, but it made perfect sense for the sea captain.
The Mirage of Convenience
Now, I’ll be the first to admit-and this is my own annoying contradiction-that after a long day, the simplicity of a pre-packaged style is seductive. The idea that you can buy a 9-piece ‘Industrial Living Room Starter Set’ for a flat fee of $1,979 and just be done is deeply appealing. It promises to save you the agonizing work of making choices. But this convenience is a mirage. It shortcuts the entire process of discovering what you actually love, replacing self-knowledge with a transaction. The problem is that most online shopping experiences are built on these rigid filters. They force you to declare a tribe before you can even see the goods. What we really need is a place that rejects this, a place built on curation rather than categorization. A good home decor online store should trust you to recognize what belongs in your story without needing a label first. It’s about the object, not the box it fits in.
Pre-defined, limiting
Personal, emerging
It’s about the object, not the box it fits in.
Your Home Is Not A Catalog Page
It’s a Living Document
The Illusion of Choice
The pressure to define a personal style is a marketing invention designed to streamline purchasing behavior. It’s easier to sell to a ‘Modern Farmhouse’ customer than to a complex human being who likes her grandmother’s ornate mirror, a brutalist concrete coffee table, and a garishly floral armchair she found on the side of the road. A paint company recently boasted of its 239 shades of greige. We are given the illusion of infinite choice within a carefully constructed, impossibly narrow spectrum. It’s all just different shades of the same safe, marketable, and ultimately soulless idea.
…239 shades, all subtly same…
Authenticity vs. Performance
This isn’t about shaming anyone who loves a good, cohesive look. It’s about questioning where the desire for that look comes from. Is it a genuine, soul-deep love for minimalism, or is it a response to the anxiety of endless choice? Is it an aesthetic that brings you calm, or is it an aesthetic you saw on social media that signifies a certain kind of success?
Genuine, soul-deep love for aesthetics that bring calm and joy.
A response to anxiety, signifying success on social media, not genuine connection.
The Rewarding Work of Self-Discovery
The real work is slower, messier, and infinitely more rewarding. It involves making mistakes. Lots of them. It involves buying the weird lamp at the flea market that doesn’t quite go with anything, but you just love it. It involves painting a wall a color that looks great at 9 AM and terrifying at 9 PM. It involves trusting that strange, inexplicable pull toward an object. This process doesn’t yield a neat label. It yields a home that feels like a conversation with your own past, present, and future.
Emerge, Don’t Find
Alex J.’s dollhouses feel more alive than most real houses I’ve been in. They are layered, specific, and full of harmonious discord. They are built from the character out, not the catalog in. Our homes deserve the same consideration. They are the containers for our lives, not showrooms for our aspirational selves. Forget the quizzes. Forget the categories. Start with one thing you truly love. Then another. Let them speak to each other. Let them argue.