Surprise – We’re Moving Again, And It’s Completely Changing How I Think About Interior Design

Designing my own home sounds like the ultimate advantage – no client constraints, no approvals, complete creative freedom. In reality, it has turned out to be one of the most challenging projects I’ve ever taken on as an interior designer.

When I work with clients, there’s always a clear framework: a brief to anchor the direction, a defined budget, a timeline, and, perhaps most importantly, a healthy layer of emotional distance. Decisions are considered, but not personal. With my own home, that distance disappears. Everything feels more loaded, more instinctive, and at times unexpectedly difficult. The sheer volume of choice can become overwhelming, and there’s a strange, self-imposed pressure for the space to somehow represent the 'ultimate' version of my design thinking – as if this one project has to summarise everything I’ve ever learned.

As designers, we’re trained to see possibilities everywhere. In client work, that’s a real strength – I can quickly filter options, simplify decisions, and move a project forward with confidence. But applied to my own home, that instinct does the opposite. Instead of narrowing things down, I found myself expanding them. Ten kitchen layouts instead of three. All of them viable, all of them appealing, and suddenly nothing felt straightforward. Decisions I’d usually make in minutes became drawn-out, surprisingly emotional processes.

It’s been a useful reminder that good design isn’t about identifying every possible option – it’s about knowing when to stop exploring and commit.

Clients often feel overwhelmed during renovations, and I used to read that as uncertainty about the design direction or a lack of clarity in my proposals. At times, I even took it personally, as if their hesitation reflected directly on the ideas I was presenting. Going through my own renovation has completely reframed that.

When it’s your own home, decisions stop being purely visual or practical – they’re tied to how you want to live, how you want to feel day to day, and, in a subtle way, how you see yourself. Something as simple as choosing a paint color can start to feel like choosing a version of your future life. Experiencing that firsthand has made me far more empathetic. When a client struggles to decide now, I don’t see doubt or indecision in the same way – I see how much they care about getting it right.

Designing for myself has removed the professional distance that usually makes the work feel more straightforward, but it’s also changed how I approach my clients. I’m much more aware of the need to build structure around decision-making – not just presenting options, but clearly explaining why something works, and helping clients feel anchored in that choice. I’ve always guided clients through decisions, but I now understand the importance of actively easing decision fatigue, not just reacting to it once it appears.

I’m also becoming more aware of just how much reassurance matters. What feels obvious to me as a designer can feel quite high-stakes for a client. Moving forward, I want to build in more intentional moments of validation – not just guiding decisions, but actively reinforcing that they’re on the right track, that their instincts are valid, and that there isn’t a single “perfect” choice they’re somehow at risk of missing.

Another shift is happening in how I think about flexibility. In my own project, I’ve had to accept that not every decision needs to be final from the outset, and that things can – and often should – evolve as you live with them. That’s something I want to carry more consciously into client work as well. My design philosophy has always centred on the idea that a home should grow with the people who live in it, rather than feel fixed or 'finished' on day one (in fact, I wrote my first article for this column about exactly that). I’ve always tried to design with long-term adaptability in mind – layering in flexibility through layout, materials, and the way a space can be reinterpreted as life changes.

What I’m realising now, though, is that while I’ve been intentional about building adaptability into the outcome of a space, I haven’t always extended that same flexibility to the process of getting there. The way I structure decisions, present options, and move towards resolution has often been quite efficiency-led. And in fairness, that’s sometimes necessary – projects need momentum, timelines need to be met, and there has to be a clear sense of direction to keep things moving.

But through my own renovation, I’ve seen how that approach can also leave less room for exploration, or for the slower, more reflective decision-making some people genuinely need to feel confident. It’s made me rethink not just what I design, but how I design alongside clients – and how important it is to allow space within the process itself for pause, revision, and the understanding that early choices don’t have to lock everything in.

Going forward, I want to bring more of the philosophy I use in my spaces into the process itself: less pressure for immediate answers, more room for iteration, and a greater acceptance that clarity doesn’t always arrive in a straight line.

More than anything, this experience has reinforced something I probably knew but hadn’t fully felt in practice – that design is just as emotional as it is aesthetic or functional. I’m walking away with a much deeper respect for the vulnerability that comes with letting someone shape your home. And that perspective, more than any specific layout or material choice, is what I’ll carry into every project from here on.