You Can’t Shake the Feeling That Everything is TEMPORARY

There’s a pattern that comes from trauma where people move through life without ever truly committing to anything long-term — relationships, careers, communities, even the places they live often feel provisional, like brief stops rather than permanent territory. Many of us who endured neglect or abuse as children end up living this way and mistakenly believe it’s a personal shortcoming — some sort of failure to “decorate” our lives properly. From conversations with thousands who grew up with trauma, I can tell you this response is widespread. Today’s letter comes from a woman I’ll call Marty. She writes: my problem is that I have never been able to make my living space feel like mine. My apartment has never looked pleasing to me. Okay — I’ll put a little marker beside things I want to revisit on a second pass — but for now here’s what Marty describes: I’m moving because my lease is ending, and when I look around the apartment I can’t see any change from how it looked the day I rented it two years ago; it was furnished when I moved in. It feels like I never actually lived here, and noticing that is painful. I know some of this traces back to childhood: we were poor, my father drank and was violent, my mother struggled with mental illness, and some nights we didn’t know whether we’d have dinner — it was unpredictable. My early years were chaotic, the house was messy, and we had few visitors. At six I went to live with relatives and experienced another kind of abuse I won’t detail now, but I never felt like that place was a home — more like I was merely crashing there. I didn’t even always have my own bed or room. When I was around eight I drew on a wall with crayon; my aunt reprimanded me. I scrubbed and couldn’t remove it, and for years every time I passed that wall I felt ashamed and embarrassed. I’m now 38, single, without children, and I’ve lived in many rentals, but I’ve never truly personalized any of them. I used to say I couldn’t afford to decorate, but now I have the money, so that excuse has run out. I’m making small strides in my healing and really want a home that feels like a sanctuary. But I also resent myself a little for always choosing the cheapest, ugliest apartments instead of nicer places I could afford. That’s Marty. Her letter stuck with me when I first read it, and I found myself wondering whether anyone else would understand. Since then I’ve met many people with the same experience, and my attention has shifted toward my own struggles with this feeling of impermanence. I deeply relate to that sense that everything must remain temporary. Hearing your childhood story — the messy house, the lack of visitors — it’s clear the home was only ever a roof over your head, not a safe place where you felt cherished or valued. Then living with relatives brought other harms, and that reinforced the idea that you were always just staying somewhere, not belonging. I relate to your wall story too. As a kid, I once took a crayon and drew on the outside brick wall of my elementary school. I never got caught; another child was blamed because I had a reputation for being “a good kid,” and no one expected me to do something like that. I didn’t even understand my motive then. Years later, looking at that wall still made me feel ashamed, and I eventually confessed — even to some classmates and the child who had been blamed. When we reconnected as adults on Facebook he didn’t remember the incident, but I felt terrible and admitted what I’d done. That memory made me feel a kinship with your shame. I’ve often struggled to understand this tendency myself, so first I want to say: there’s no rule that you must fill your space with traditionally “feminine” decoration. I’ve felt pressure at times to perform as a woman who decorates, and while I enjoy decorating in certain situations, much of my energy is devoted to making and doing. Right now I’m filming in a studio that’s functional but not pretty — artwork leaning on the floor, a crooked rug, cables strewn about. The room is where I get work done; aesthetics aren’t its primary job. I’ve been criticized before (not here) by housemates who labeled my messy, task-oriented approach as lacking “female energy.” But that’s really about having the energy to live, work, and survive what we’ve been through. And where you are now is fine. If you truly want a warm, beautiful home, that can absolutely be an enjoyable project, and there are practical ways to ease into it. This applies to clothes too: I hate shopping and often default to the cheapest, most utilitarian option. I’m working on that. What helps me is scheduling shopping trips — sometimes alone, sometimes with a friend, depending on what feels better. I suspect you have friends who would love to help you choose pieces for your space if that sounds appealing. If decision-making brings up shame and anxiety — fears of choosing wrong, drilling a hole in the wall, or making a mess — then having someone with you during the process can be calming. One useful trick has been hiring a handyman: someone who’s paid to hold tools, suggest placement, and hang things. A paid helper often keeps the interaction calmer than trying to work through these choices with a partner, because partnership dynamics can carry extra emotional charge. Even if you have someone who could help for free, sometimes the professional boundary makes it less fraught and easier for you to stay composed. Another important point: the deeper sense that “everything is temporary” often can’t be fully solved by acquiring objects. From my experience, that feeling comes from inside — it’s an anxiety that slowly eases as you develop consistency in your life: committing to projects, organizing your work, staying in relationships, and building routines. For me, having a long-term partner and a more ordered business life has helped. We’ve been together sixteen years and married for almost eleven, but coming together like that was a process. For many years I resisted buying furniture because I expected sudden financial disaster or relationship collapse; after so many upheavals in my past, I found it hard to trust permanence. What impresses me about your situation is that you’re now in a place where you can afford to make changes. When something triggers PTSD-like reactions — when it sets off dysregulation — it’s understandable to avoid it. The strategy is to take tiny steps: treat it like a series of small experiments. Buy a single chair and put it where you think it might belong; it doesn’t have to be perfect. If you’re aiming for higher quality, choose pieces that can be returned. I can’t overstate how useful returnable items are. I’m not great at picturing how objects will look in a room until I see them in place, so I tend to shop where returns are simple. Yes, moving furniture into your home costs effort and money, and decorating choices can feel bewildering — “what do you even put on the walls?” — and photos often look too small or awkward. That’s okay. Start with what you can imagine and allow the rest to evolve. I’ll share a recent win: I splurged on heavy velvet curtains — $500 — to darken and insulate a room where I film. Normally I wouldn’t have spent that much on drapes, but they were on sale and they’re a gorgeous teal. They arrived after months of waiting (I ordered them from Anthropologie), I hung them, and they’ve brought me a surprising amount of joy ever since. Even if I don’t live here forever, they’re lovely enough to belong in a dining room or another space later. I also use a high-quality adjustable desk that supports my work — these practical, well-made items make a difference. Little wins like that matter. So to summarize practical steps: take small, manageable purchases; favor items with easy return policies; consider bringing a calm, paid helper to handle the physical tasks and decisions; shop in ways that reduce pressure (alone or with supportive friends); and be gentle with yourself about how quickly the inner sense of permanence will shift. The environment helps, but the deeper change comes from steadying your inner life by staying, working, and forging stable relationships. Over time those internal changes let you enjoy making a space that truly feels like yours.

See this lever? It belongs to an adjustable table I can move around and tilt however I need. For the last five or six years I’ve been making my living as Crappy Childhood Fairy, and in the beginning I’d just set my papers and pencils on a chair with a cardboard box on top. Eventually I invested in this table — it cost me a couple hundred dollars at least (actually about $120 back in 2017) — and it’s well made enough to last the rest of my life. I’m sharing it as a small example of what’s worked for me as I’ve upgraded a few things. That backdrop people always ask about is an out-of-focus stock photo printed on fabric that I had made when I first started Crappy Childhood Fairy; it’s the same piece I use in every video and I weigh the bottom with big clips. Growing up poor made me frugal, and you might be too — that’s not a bad thing. I wish you luck. I wanted to pass along a bit of my experience about allowing yourself a few nicer things and starting small: personally I’m about twenty percent of the way toward decorating my home the way I’d like, and I’m in no rush — I want to enjoy the process of shopping, and hope you do, too. One item I wanted to share is my list of signs of healing. A common sign that healing hasn’t yet happened is underspending — even if we splurge in certain areas, many of us still underinvest in how our living spaces look and feel, which is a typical trauma response. A quick test: check your underwear drawer — if everything in there is awful and you’d be mortified for anyone to see it, that can be a clue you’re underspending. My signs-of-healing download is deep and substantial — a long, multi-page document and one of my favorite things I’ve created — and I offer it free. You can click right there to get your copy. See you very soon.