Paint the Wall Black: Reflections on Self, Space, and Showing Up Fully
One of the original intentions behind The Building Life was to document the literal building—of my home, my spaces, and my life. I haven’t written much about the renovations lately, but that’s about to change.
Because life, in all its concert-going, charity-organizing, cofounding chaos, recently gave me a new project: my sons decided to swap bedrooms.
From Mural Walls to Black Ceilings
It started with simple intentions: move some furniture, repaint a wall or two. But one change spiraled into many—painting over a Mario mural I’d once done for my younger son, redoing furniture, purging toys, reorganizing chaos.
And then came the request.
“Mom, I want to paint my room black.”
My first reaction? Absolutely not. You can’t live in a dungeon.
But then I caught myself.
I remembered being that age—wanting a dark purple room and covering my walls with posters and collages. My mom compromised, maybe against her taste, but she gave me a space that felt like mine.
This request from my son sparked something deeper. Why was I resisting the same self-expression I had once craved?
When Style Becomes a Mirror
Over the years, I’ve decorated apartments and homes in ways that made sense at the time. But if I’m being honest, a lot of those choices were about what I thought others wanted to see—what looked Pinterest-worthy or socially acceptable.
I forgot that once, my room was a sanctuary. A place to be me.
Now, years later, I find myself painting my own living room with a black accent wall. But I hesitated when my son asked for the same?
It made me realize: somewhere along the way, I stopped decorating for myself.
But lately—whether it’s age or healing or just exhaustion—I care less about my home being a showroom and more about it being a haven. For me. For my kids. For the love we live in every day.
My walls are sometimes scratched, my furniture is always being repainted, and my house is rarely minimalist or curated. But the artwork speaks to me. The colors calm my nervous system. The chaos reflects the creative soul that lives here.
So yes, I compromised on dark grey for a few walls—but I also let my son paint his ceiling. And I don’t regret it for a second.
We Were Never “Too Much”
I’ve seen the quote a few different ways, but the idea sticks:
“Eventually, we return to the person we were before the world told us who to be.”
I know I’ve spent years trying to fit into molds—watered-down versions of myself I thought were easier to love, safer to show. But I tell my kids all the time: Be yourself, and the right people will love you for it.
And I’m finally trying to live that truth, too.
What’s wild is how this self-return shows up in the most unexpected places—like a paintbrush, a thrifted dresser, or a room transformation I didn’t plan.
Because our homes tell a story. And for many of us, they reflect either who we are—or who we think we’re supposed to be.
So, I ask you:
Does your home feel like a sanctuary… or just another chore?
Is it a reflection of your soul… or a curated version meant to impress?
Now, I’m not saying you should end up on an episode of Hoarders, and yes—I’ve seen houses that could’ve dialed back the personality just a bit before hitting the market (and if you haven’t fallen down that particular video rabbit hole… you’re welcome).
But we’re allowed to take up space, to have rooms that feel like us. Even if that means painting the walls black.
Clutter, Chaos, and Creativity
Yes, I envy the pristine homes I see online—the clutter-free zones and perfect lighting. But I know myself. I know my brain. I live with AuDHD. With trauma. With passion. With love.
And I know this: if I had to maintain a perfectly curated home every day, I would fracture.
Actually—I have. Just maybe not with a dramatic furniture-smashing scene from a movie (though I’ve definitely painted over the same dresser seven times, so… close enough).
I’ve come to accept that the clutter and chaos are part of me. Part of the ever-evolving metamorphosis that is healing, parenting, and being human.
So if you're like me—constantly tweaking, rearranging, repainting—maybe it’s not a flaw. Maybe it’s just evidence of growth. Of movement. Of becoming.
Masks, Minimalism, and the Middle
I get why some people reserve one “sacred” room to be themselves in—a man cave, a craft space, a moody bedroom. But what happens when the rest of our house still caters to other people’s opinions?
Where does the concern for being “too much” end, if not behind our own walls?
And if we don’t feel free in our homes, how can we feel free in our lives? Our minds?
Some people hide behind face paint and wild outfits (absolutely reflected in our recent music festivities.) Others hide behind beige walls and throw pillows. Some of us hide behind constant people-pleasing and clean counters.
But hiding is hiding—whether it’s glitter or gray.
And maybe it’s not that we’re judging others for how they express themselves.
Maybe we’re projecting our own fear of doing the same.
Teach Them Freedom
I don’t want my kids to grow up and have to unlearn things because of my conditioning.
I want them to feel safe being themselves—to be bold, to ask questions, to wear what speaks to them, and yes, to paint the wall black.
Even if you don’t have kids, I hope you know this:
You deserve to show up as the version of you that brings joy.
Not the curated version. Not the watered-down version.
The real one. The colorful one. The loud one.
The one you were before the world told you not to be.
And if that version of you lives in a cluttered, colorful, paint-splattered house?
Even better.
Because that house holds your magic. (Pun intended)
And magic was never meant to be minimalist.
Keep building life, one imperfect, beautifully authentic room at a time.
With love from my little black heart,
Lauren
P.S. Soundtrack of this post? Black No. 1 by Type O Negative. Obviously. Paint It Black by The Stones is a good runner up.
