A few years ago, I stood in the narrow corridor and realized I had grown to loathe it. Not in a “burn it down” kind of way. More like when you outgrow something without noticing. Like your old phone case, or a shirt that starts smelling weird no matter how often it's washed.

It was claustrophobic, and there was this one bit where the paint peeled like old glue. Just a wall. But somehow it felt like it was part of the problem. Of what? No idea. Everything, maybe.

I didn't set out to remodel. I planned to tidy up a bit. Maybe change the bulb. Then I tugged the edge of the wallpaper, and underneath… well. Bold paisley. Looked like it was printed by someone on drugs. The kind of wallpaper that makes you step back.

And that's how it begins. You pull one thread, and the house gives in like it was waiting.

Next thing I knew, I was Googling things I'd never cared about. Caulking guns. I developed a taste for paint swatches. I joined forums 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 making it pretty. It was about finally saying something wasn't home anymore, and that I was tired of tiptoeing. I used to sidestep a creaky floorboard by the bathroom even after I fixed it. Muscle memory is ridiculous like that.

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

But that's part of the ride. You fumble, 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 mine now.

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 patch it. That's what read more I do. Or at least that's what I tell guests.