I grew up watching my parents renovate residential and commercial properties, so when Matt and I began renovating homes of our own, their insight was invaluable.
There are hundreds of decisions in a renovation. Some are obviously important. Others should probably take five minutes but somehow consume an afternoon.
My mom has always had a way of putting this into perspective.
When I’m agonizing over some small decision, she'll remind me that if I invited fifty people into a room and, after they left, asked them about that particular detail, most wouldn't be able to tell me what it was.
This is coming from a woman who notices everything.
Her point has never been that the details don't matter. It's almost the opposite.
Someone may not remember whether the cabinet pulls were brushed or polished nickel. They probably won't notice the width of the mat around a photograph or exactly where a lampshade falls against its base.
But they'll know how the room felt.
For a long time, I wished my brain would let some of these things go.
It can make choosing a paint color take longer than it should. It can make moving a chair six inches feel strangely consequential. It can make it nearly impossible to sit in a room without instinctively rearranging something in my head.
Eventually I realized that instinct wasn't getting in the way.
The smallest details are rarely small at all.
Not because every decision deserves the same amount of attention, but because together they create something larger. A hundred decisions that no one consciously registers can be the reason a room feels calm. Or welcoming. Or interesting. The reason someone wants to stay a little longer without quite knowing why.
Good design isn't always consciously noticed. It's quietly experienced.
The goal isn't for every detail to be noticed.
It's for every detail to contribute.