I still remember standing in the middle of that tiny room, holding a paint swatch that looked beige in the store but somehow turned into a shade of oatmeal sadness on my wall. That was the first moment I realized I might have gotten myself into something bigger than picking cute wallpaper. But I’d already said out loud—confidently, by the way—that I wanted to design the nursery myself. Once you say it, you sort of have to follow through, right?

I started this Orlando moms blog to share these types of things.

I started with this big idea that the room should feel cozy without looking like a Pinterest board swallowed it whole. I’ve always loved soft colors, but I didn’t want it to feel too precious. I walked around the room trying to picture furniture that didn’t overwhelm the space, mentally rearranging imaginary cribs while I held a lukewarm coffee like it was a compass guiding me. At one point, I spent an entire afternoon trying to decide if a rocking chair should go near the window or the corner. I moved it back and forth so many times my arms were sore, which felt a little embarrassing to admit even to myself.

Picking the decor ended up being the part I loved most. I found these little hill and tree tracing prints from an Orlando artist to paint on the wall. I remember unwrapping them on the living room floor and feeling that spark in my chest, the one that whispers, “Oh, this might actually turn out okay.”

There were moments the process felt oddly emotional. Paint does that to me, apparently. Picking a color for someone who can’t tell you their opinion yet feels weirdly intimate. I stood in the half-painted room one night, the smell still sharp in the air, and felt this little wave of gratitude and panic roll through me at the same time. Like, look at me, creating a whole space from scratch… and also, please let this paint dry the color I think it will.

What surprised me most was how the tiny details gave me the most joy. A little lamp that glows just soft enough. A basket that somehow fits everything I toss in it like a magic trick. The rug I almost didn’t buy because it felt like a “maybe someday” purchase, but now it’s my favorite thing in the entire room. It’s funny how the parts I agonized over faded into the background, and the things I grabbed on instinct ended up shining.

Designing the nursery myself didn’t make me some sort of home decor prodigy, but it did make the space feel like a piece of me—my chaos, my guessing, my quiet moments of clarity. Every time I walk in, I spot something that reminds me of the process: the wobbly picture frame I fixed twice, the curtain rod I almost installed upside down, the wallpaper sample still taped to the inside of a drawer because I couldn’t bear to toss it.

And somewhere in all of that, the room stopped being a project I stressed about and started feeling like a little pocket of calm I built with my own hands. It’s imperfect in a way that makes me strangely proud, like proof that sometimes the things we piece together through trial, error, and stubborn hope turn out sweeter than we planned.