The Rooms We Grow Into
Updated: Sep 11
Designing a home for the life you're living now, and the one still unfolding
There is plaster drying upstairs as I write this.
Behind it are new electrical lines for reading lights and integrated bookcase lighting. In a few days, custom cabinetry will begin to arrive. Stone, wallpaper, paint, wool carpet and drapery will follow.
But this particular project didn't begin with cabinetry or wallpaper. It began with a broken bunk bed.
When we moved from San Francisco to Lexington in 2021, my son was eight. His new bedroom already had a white bunk bed, remarkably similar to the one he'd left behind in California. We added a simple rolling desk and bookcase, brought in a few familiar things, and before long the room filled with Pokémon cards, Legos, books, stuffed animals and all the evidence of a kid making a new place his own.
And when I say stuffed animals, I mean stuffed animals. They filled both bunks, including the top bunk where he slept among them. Whenever a friend came to stay, the bottom bunk had to be cleared just to make room for an actual human.
It was exactly what it needed to be. Until it wasn't.
Not long ago, my son leaned against the upper rail and it broke. There was nothing particularly profound about a broken piece of furniture. But standing there looking at that bed, I realized it was a physical manifestation of something I'd already been noticing. He had outgrown the room. Not just physically. He was changing.
And suddenly I found myself considering a question that had very little to do with bunk beds:
How do you design a room for fourteen without designing a room that expires at eighteen?
Designing for the person, not the age
My son has been involved in the process from the beginning, much as I involve a client. I showed him layouts. We talked about how he actually uses the room. We considered where he likes to read, where he might eventually study, what he wants to see from the bed and what he absolutely does not want.
There were opinions.
One early layout put the bed into the bay window. He loved it. Unfortunately, the closet doors disagreed.
I showed him several upholstered beds. One was apparently far too wavy.
And when I suggested that perhaps we could fit a small sofa into the room, he looked at me and said:
“Do I have to have a sofa?”
“Don't you want somewhere to hang out?”
“Well, that's what the beanbag's for.”
Fair enough.
Because ultimately, he is the client. When I asked him what he wanted the finished room to feel like, his direction was wonderfully concise:
“Clean, simple and not too fancy.”
As his father, I might dispute what qualifies as fancy. As his designer, though, I understand exactly what he means. He gravitates toward clean lines, calm color, natural materials and very little visual noise. Blues, greens and grays. Nothing overly patterned. Nothing fussy. Nothing that feels like someone tried too hard to design a “teen boy's room.”
So we're not.
Instead, we're designing for the person he is now, with room for the person he's becoming.
What we make permanent, and what we allow to change.
The most permanent investment in the room will be its architecture.
Floor-to-ceiling cabinetry will frame the bed, adding storage, bookshelves, integrated lighting and a sense that the room has always wanted to be organized this way.
A wool carpet will soften the room while preserving the hardwood beneath it. Hardwired reading lights will replace the little clip-on lights that have followed him through years of late-night reading. Walnut, aged brass, a woven wallcovering and quiet layers of blue-gray will bring warmth and depth without asking for too much attention.
None of those decisions depend on him being fourteen.
That's intentional.
His books will change. The objects on the shelves will change. Artwork will change. The beanbag may someday disappear. The things he loves now will eventually make room for things I can't possibly anticipate.
Good design doesn't need to prevent that. It should make room for it.
And this is something I think about often in my residential interior design work here in Lexington and throughout Greater Boston. Before deciding what a room should look like, I want to understand what life is asking of it now, and what we can reasonably imagine it may need to do later.
Some things deserve permanence. Others should be allowed to evolve.
Knowing the difference matters.
The things we carry with us
There is one piece in my son's new room that I've become unexpectedly sentimental about.
His desk.
It's walnut, beautifully made and substantial enough to live far beyond this bedroom. He wanted it near the window, where he can look outside while he works.
Perhaps it stays there through high school. Perhaps one day it moves into a first apartment. Maybe it eventually ends up in a home of his own, carrying with it some small memory of where he grew up.
I have no idea. But I love that possibility.
The cabinetry belongs to the house. The desk, I hope, may someday belong to his story.
That's one of the distinctions I find increasingly interesting in design.Some things we create for the architecture. Some things we choose for this particular season. And some things become part of the lives that leave with us.
When life changes before the house does
Homes fall out of alignment with us all the time.
Kids leave for college and bedrooms sit untouched. A guest room becomes an office. Working from home changes where we spend most of the day. A playroom becomes a library, studio or place to exercise.
We entertain differently. We develop new hobbies. Our bodies change. Our relationships change. Our families expand, contract and reorganize themselves.
Sometimes nothing dramatic has happened at all. Life has simply moved forward while the house stayed still.
And that's often the moment when someone begins looking around and thinking:
Something isn't working anymore.
The instinct is frequently to start with the visible thing. Maybe we need a new sofa. Maybe we should repaint. Maybe the kitchen needs to be renovated. Maybe we should finally do something about that room nobody uses.
But sometimes the problem isn't the sofa.
The harder and more valuable question is:
What does this home need to do for us now that it didn't need to do before?
That's where thoughtful interior design can change the conversation.
A home that rises up to greet you
I don't believe good design is simply about creating beautiful rooms. It's about improving the experience of living in them.
Where does the mail land when you walk through the door? Where do your slippers go? Is there somewhere to put a drink beside the chair where you actually sit? Is the lamp where you need light?
Can you put your feet on the coffee table? Is the television at a comfortable height? Can you find what you need without moving three other things first?
These are tiny questions.
They're also the stuff of everyday life.
Material, scale, light, texture and beauty matter enormously to me. So do craftsmanship, longevity and the pleasure of owning things that have been thoughtfully made.
But those things become most meaningful when they're in service of a life.
Sometimes that means a comprehensive renovation. Sometimes it means furnishings, lighting and color. Sometimes the answer is better storage, a different layout or simply recognizing that a room has been assigned a job nobody needs anymore.
And sometimes the most valuable thing we can design isn't simply a beautiful room. It's a clear path toward one. The goal isn't change for the sake of change.
It's alignment.
The room upstairs
My son's room isn't finished yet.
Right now, there is still plaster drying on the walls. The old furniture is making its way out. Cabinetry, stone, wallpaper, paint and all the softer layers are still ahead of us.
And I'm glad I'm writing about it now rather than waiting for the finished photographs. Because the finished room isn't really the point.
In a few years, my son may leave for college. He may go somewhere nearby or somewhere very far away. He'll begin building a life that increasingly belongs to him rather than to us. And eventually, I imagine him coming home. Maybe for a weekend. Maybe for Thanksgiving. Maybe carrying laundry. Probably hungry.
I hope the shelves hold different books by then. I hope there are things in the room I don't recognize. I hope the desk has acquired a few marks. Most of all, I hope he walks in, drops his bag and thinks:
It's good to be home.
That's what I want this room to hold.
Not a particular age. Not a trend. Not a frozen version of the person he is today. Just enough of him, enough of us and enough room for whatever comes next.
Because a well-designed room doesn't need to predict exactly who you'll become.
It simply needs to leave enough room for you to get there.
And perhaps that's the question worth asking of our homes every so often:
Does this home still fit the life I'm living now, and is there room for the life that's coming next?
Warmly,
Has your life evolved faster than your home?
The complimentary Alignment Session is a place to begin the conversation, understand what's no longer working and consider what your home's next chapter might require.
