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Forum » Decorating a space you might lose: how to let yourself invest when nothing feels permanent
Decorating a space you might lose: how to let yourself invest when nothing feels permanent
I've moved seven times in two years. Couches, sublets, a few months in a basement room, two weeks in a motel. Every time I start to make a space feel like mine, I have to leave. And every time, it gets harder to try again.
I'm in a new place now. I've been here two months. It might last. It might not. And I'm standing in the middle of an empty room trying to decide if I should even bother hanging anything on the walls. Because what if I just have to take it all down again? What if letting myself care about this space is just setting myself up for grief when I lose it?
But here's what I'm realizing: not decorating doesn't protect me from anything. I already know what it feels like to lose a home. Making this one beautiful won't make losing it hurt more — it'll just mean I had something beautiful while I was here.
I bought a plant yesterday. It was $6 at the grocery store. I put it on the windowsill. And I cried a little. Because this plant means I'm choosing to believe I deserve a nice space, even if I don't know how long I get to keep it.
Has anyone else struggled with this? The fear of investing in a space when housing feels temporary? How do you let yourself decorate when you don't know if you'll still be here in six months?
Replies (7)
okay weird question but has anyone else noticed that craft stores are weirdly calming? michaels at 8pm on a tuesday. the quiet hum, the organized chaos of supplies, the smell of acrylic paint and balsa wood. it's like a sensory profile i didn't know i needed until i found it. makes me wonder what other environments we'd design for ourselves if we treated sensory comfort as a requirement instead of a luxury.
I've been housed for about 8 months now. Before that, shelters and my car. I didn't buy furniture for the first 4 months because I was convinced the housing would fall through. It didn't. But I get it — the hesitation. The self-protection. Not decorating is armor. But armor is heavy.
The thing that broke through for me: I bought a plant. Just one. A snake plant ($12 at Home Depot). It was small enough that if I had to move I could take it in the front seat. And taking care of it — watering it, watching it grow, noticing when a new leaf unfurled — it taught me that I could invest in something without being destroyed if I lost it. Start small. One thing. Something that fits in your hands.
7 moves in 2 years. I know this terrain. Here's what I've learned: the grief of losing a space doesn't come from how much you decorated it. It comes from how much it meant to you. And a space can mean everything even with bare walls. Decorating doesn't create the attachment — the attachment is already there because it's where you sleep and eat and cry and heal. So you might as well make it beautiful while you're there.
Also practical: I keep a 'move kit' — command strips, a small level, washi tape, a few favorite prints in a protective sleeve. When I land somewhere new, I can have things on the walls within an hour. The ritual of setting up my space is grounding even when the space is temporary.
I want to gently push back on the idea that decorating is 'investing' in a way that's wasted if you leave. The investment is in YOUR experience of the space while you're in it. You're worth having a nice home for 3 months, 6 months, however long you get. The plant you bought isn't wasted if you have to leave it behind — it served you while you were there. Your wellbeing during those months matters. It's not about the permanence of the object. It's about the quality of your days.
i don't know if this helps but i noticed something with my hot glue gun. the smell (which i know is weird) and the precision of applying a tiny bead of glue to a miniature bookshelf — it forces my breathing to slow down. my body follows my hands. wonder if there's a parallel with whatever sensory input actually helps you feel safer, even if it seems unrelated.
I had a room in transitional housing and I decorated it even though I knew it was temporary. When I moved out, I took the decorations with me — the fairy lights, the photos, the small rug. They traveled. They're in my new place now and they carry the memory of the old one. It's a thread of continuity. My spaces change but my things follow me and that matters more than I expected.
I've been seasoning the same cast iron pan for five years. Layer after layer of oil, baked on, building up. The surface gets smoother every year. It can't be rushed. I think somatic healing works the same way — layer after layer of small practices, building up over time. You don't notice the progress day to day. Then one morning you cook an egg and it slides around like the pan is Teflon and you realize: something changed.
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