When Does a House Become a Home?

Reflections on the 102-year-old home I'm moving into and what it's taught me about perfectionism, legacy and weathering (temporary) discomfort

Welcome, I’m Lindsay. The Slow Studio is a space I’ve created to write about my approach to slow(er) living as a design studio owner, multifaceted creative, first-time motherhood and more. Keep up with me on Instagram, Pinterest and TikTok.

A freshly painted future dining room, which used to be bright canary yellow.

The concept of a lasting home has felt murky at best over the last decade.

I was raised in the humid haze of Georgia, first in the suburbs and then found my footing as a 20-something in Atlanta.

That city felt like home to me.

I can close my eyes and instantly transport myself back to that sun-drenched first apartment, a historic building converted into 12 apartments, with the most idyllic address: 1234 Virginia Avenue.

The old tiled bathroom floors, the worn wood floors, the glass doorknobs and built-in cabinetry: it all sucked me in and felt so magical.

My 20s were punctuated by, and almost defined by, constantly moving.

At 23 I packed my entire life into my car and moved to Colorado, where my boyfriend (and now husband) lived. At 25 I did it all over (again!), and this time to St. Louis.

Having never set foot in the Midwest, I’d all but sworn it off.

But now here I am, nearly a decade later in St. Louis, moving into our new home. The forever kind of home. And it’s already taught me so much.

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After months of talking and searching far and wide for our next home, ironically, we landed right back in our neighborhood just a mile down the road.

It seems like everyone is saying the same thing lately, but I’ll reiterate it in case you don’t feel so alone:

The real estate market is wild right now, and it’s normal to get attached to a home and feel immense heartbreak when it doesn’t work out.

In June we lost out on a gorgeous mid-century modern home to an offer coming in nearly $100k over asking (wild!) and almost paused the house hunt after that crushing defeat.

Then a historic home down the road came on that was being sold-as is, and although those two words sounded daunting, it felt right in ways that I can’t quite articulate.

Painting progress in the sunroom!

This 102-year-old house has already acted as a mirror and shown me to myself time and time again. And for that, I’m grateful.

I’ve been forced to overlook its perceived flaws and gaze deeper into its historic beauty and potential. My perfectionism has reared its ugly head, screaming at times over every cracked wall, every dirty window, every scratched door.

It’s in these moments that my intuition steps in to temper my ego, reminding me that plaster, paint and a little love are all salves for this battered-yet-beautiful home.

I’m learning to slow down and honor this process, while also acknowledging that my tendency to rush through life has held me back from feeling so many things.

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I spent most of last Sunday scrubbing layer upon layer of grime off of the screened-in porch while my daughter watched from her playpen.

There’s something about cleaning that feels so rhythmic and methodical, and I fell into a sort of trance envisioning the adventurous, inspired life that I want her to experience within these new-old walls.

A legacy will be built here – it’s already being built here – and that feels so comforting.

I looked up from my bucket of soap and water and something felt all too familiar about the scene unfurling in front of me: light dancing through the screened walls, sunbeams gleaming off of the hardwood floors, the glint of the glass doorknobs in the kitchen.

All winks and a nod back to that very first, magical Atlanta apartment.

And in that very moment I knew that this was now home.

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