Making Peace with Permanent: My Struggle, My Sanctuary

I’ve never been afraid of paint colors or bold statements—except when they’re on my walls.

There’s something wild and unsettling about choosing permanence. About putting a hole in the wall for a picture, or painting a room in a color that speaks directly to your soul. It feels risky, like you're daring the universe to shake things up again.

For years, I lived in liminal space—between moves, in rented homes, temporary houses, borrowed rooms, shared spaces. I made them lovely, of course, but not mine. Never too rooted. Never too much. Always just enough beauty to survive, not enough to belong.

But something is shifting.

I just scheduled my living room and kitchen to be painted. It might sound simple, but to me, it’s revolutionary. I picked colors that whisper safety and creativity. I imagined how the light would fall across deep tones, how I might breathe a little easier in a room that holds me.

I’m scared. I’m excited. I’m grieving all the places I wasn’t allowed to claim as home. And I’m releasing the fear that making something beautiful will somehow curse it to be taken away.

This building, this house—it’s not just walls and windows. It’s the first space I’ve dared to call sanctuary. Not because it’s perfect or permanent, but because I am choosing to let it reflect who I am right now—bold, tender, healing.

So I paint.

And with every brushstroke, I’m rewriting the narrative.

I am allowed to take up space.
I am allowed to want comfort.
I am allowed to stay—or go—and still belong to myself.
I am allowed to make this home.

If you’ve felt the same fear of claiming permanence, know this: home isn’t built in one moment. It’s layered. Just like us.

And sometimes, the most courageous thing you can do is pick up the brush.