Stop Designing for the camera: what happens when you turn the lens inward

(Unless you’re a commercial photo producer, then let’s talk!)

You know that feeling when a space (or person for that matter) looks perfect online but feels hollow in person? I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how often we design our lives—and our homes—for the outside looking in. An “article I read recently” blew my mind: it called out how much we curate aesthetics for strangers, rather than shaping spaces that truly support the people who live inside them. 

Around the same time, I came across another video from a local, medical aesthetician, where she talked about the idea of Identity Maintenance in relation to plastic surgery. She stated that Icons don’t look like everyone else; they’re remembered for their imperfections, their quirks. As a girly thinking about a little lip chooch but too afraid to leave looking DUCK, it got me wondering. How do we preserve originality—in our homes, our faces, our fashion choices—when we’re constantly being nudged to conform to a collective algorithm? 

This conversation hits close to home—literally and professionally—as an interior designer and prop stylist. I’ve spent years designing for others, and that’s what makes this idea of outward-facing design all the more layered.

Over time, I’ve noticed a shift. Clients + friends are more focused than ever on how their spaces will look to others—online, in photos, through the eyes of a guest—than how their homes will feel to live in day to day. So many influencers take us through the full renovation of their space—only to follow it up with a GRWM to tour new apartments, because it’s already time for a new canvas. The line between commercial and residential design has started to blur. In commercial styling, designing for perception is the job. We think about how a customer will experience a product or brand and craft every visual detail to communicate that clearly and emotionally.

Residential design is personal—but lately, it’s felt like we’re curating homes for the algorithm. Open TikTok and you’ll see a sea of sameness: the same hauls, the same “dupes,” the same muted palettes or Danish references, just shuffled into new layouts. But what gets lost in all that trend-chasing? The actual you.

So what if we flipped it? What if we designed for the people who actually come in—including ourselves?

I see home as a sanctuary, a space for comfort, sensory well-being, and soul-enhancing detail—not just for show, but for living. That doesn’t mean abandoning the structure of design; it means letting that structure support the way you live.

I always stand behind process. But process doesn’t require your home to look like a magazine spread—especially when those spreads usually involve a full crew, borrowed props, and a cuckoo-la la flower budget. What matters is defining your space's purpose, then following thoughtful design checkpoints to bring it to life in a way that’s both complete and evolving.

In my own work, that means creating a grounded narrative, incorporating intentional details, and leaving space for the real stuff—road trip ceramics, photo strips from a drunken night out, the $5 flea market lamp that somehow works perfectly. A home like this doesn’t need every piece to be in place. A neighbor could pop in unannounced, and the space would still feel whole—because it was designed from the inside out.

What Jas said about beauty stuck with me: when we lean too hard into perfection, we actually become more aware of what's off. That applies to homes too. The more we chase flawless, on-trend interiors, the more disconnected they (and we) can start to feel. Real identity in a home isn’t about doing more or spending more. It’s about creating a space that aligns with your rhythms, your priorities, your quirks. The best homes aren’t perfect—they’re personal (i.e the beloved Nancy Meyers).

When we have people over, it all shows up in the details: laying out napkins and tablecloths made from dead stock fabric left from past projects, serving a new recipe I’ll probably never repeat, pairing it with an unexpected wine, and inviting my friends into the moment with me. I ask: “Does it need salt?” (Never.) “Should we retire to the living room?” That’s where the joy is—in the exchange, the presence, the realness.

My shelves reflect that, too. I do in fact have fresh flowers every day because A. I am ill for the bloom and B. Identify as the aformentioned person “flying in flowers” to set. There’s also a delicate, pony hair braid I salvaged from a vintage vase and tied to another. A framed, giant pastel nude with a grey cat hanging in our kitchen that looks eerily like me but isn’t. The ceramic lizard head hanging over Josh’s (husband) home studio set up because he’s obsessed with the sun and is one himself. These things are odd, charming, conversation-sparking. They make the space ours.

In the end, the magic of a home isn’t found in perfection—it’s in resonance. It’s in creating a space that reflects you, supports your life, and keeps pace as you grow. That’s the kind of space I want to walk into, whether it’s my own or someone else’s.

And today? That means designing for real life—not just the feed.