My Dog Had a Living Room. I Had an Epiphany

My living room, just two months ago.

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m completely alone in my house. I’m sitting in my white rolling chair at my easel, painting while blasting my new Spotify playlist called “New Life.” I feel such bliss I could cry. The euphoria is almost more than I can contain. I feel free, unencumbered, unshackled, unobligated, and responsible for absolutely no one but myself. It’s a strange and wonderful feeling, and I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced anything quite like it.

I own this house all by myself, and I get to make all the decisions about how I want things. Two months ago, I decided to give away most of the furniture I’d had for the last few years and start fresh. I bought a beautiful olive green couch that was supposedly designed to withstand cat claws, which seemed like a bold claim, but I was willing to give it a chance. My daughter Dafni and son Constantino helped me pick out end tables, lamps, and other touches to make the room feel homey. The whole color story echoed the colors outside my giant aquarium window and sliding glass doors. My house sits on a lake that reflects every imaginable shade of green, interrupted by the reflections of tile roofs peppering orange ochres throughout the scene outside my windows.

I have a stained glass window in my kitchen that came with the house. I’ve since fallen in love with it and used it as the inspiration for my entire downstairs palette. Greens and rusty oranges dominate the stained glass, and those same colors now flow throughout the house. As I surveyed my work in the main room and kitchen, I felt deeply satisfied with my choices. The inside and outside were having a beautiful conversation with each other. Everything was cohesive, intentional, and lovely. I had created the perfect living room.

Unfortunately, my satisfaction had a very short shelf life.

We’ve decided to sell our beloved property where I’ve been filming content and where I have my main art studio. It’s also where I keep my horse and where we’ve hosted countless workshops, guests, coach retreats, team summits, and other business activities. I love this property, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to justify the expense. Financially, it just doesn’t make sense anymore.

The logical solution was to rent a space where I could have my studio and film content. I’d been trying to adjust to the idea, but something about it just didn’t feel right. I started looking at spaces, and the leases were all longer commitments than I wanted to make. I didn’t want to replace one expensive obligation with another. So I began entertaining alternative solutions.

One day, I was sitting in my kitchen, staring at my dog Cyrus, who was flopped across my beautiful new olive green couch like a retired billionaire, when I had a revelation. This wasn’t my living room. This was Cyrus’s lounge.

I rarely used the couch. I might sit on it for two whole hours in a week. I’m usually upstairs in my home studio, out and about, in the kitchen, or in my bedroom. The main room of the house was the least-used space in my entire home. Here was this gorgeous room with tall ceilings, a spectacular view of the lake, beautiful new furniture, and plenty of space, all dedicated to the comfort and leisure of a canine. And he wasn’t even paying rent.

As the days passed and I continued unsuccessfully searching for a suitable studio to rent, I couldn’t stop thinking about a crazy fantasy I’d entertained for years. I’d always imagined that if I ever found myself alone, unattached, and responsible for no one, I would move to New York City, rent a giant loft apartment, and live in an art studio. My bed would be tucked off to one side of the enormous space, and the rest would be filled with long worktables, easels, shelves of art supplies, and canvases everywhere. At any moment, creating could happen. I wouldn’t have to go somewhere to make art. I would live inside of it. There would be no special room designated for creating because creating would be the main event.

And then it occurred to me. Why did I need to move to New York City to do that?

What if I removed everything from my downstairs, including Cyrus’s luxurious lounge, and turned the entire main room into an art studio? What if, instead of designing my home around the conventional idea of what a living room should be, I designed it around what I actually love doing? What if I made a huge statement to myself that art is the main event? Not lounging. Not watching television. Not sitting around looking at furniture. Creating!

I’d already turned my dining room, which is part of the main room, into a watercolor studio. What if I just went all the way and turned the rest of the downstairs into my main studio?

Of course, I immediately felt guilty about my beautiful olive couch and all the new furniture I’d just purchased. Was this what happened to people who lived alone? Did we just wake up one morning, get inspired to change everything, and do it, only to change it all again two months later? Was I becoming one of those eccentric artists who rearranges her entire life every time she has a new idea? Probably. But I was beginning to see some advantages to eccentricity.

Then I remembered that I have a giant bedroom with literally just a bed and a chair in it. Half the room is completely empty. What if I moved Cyrus’s lounge into my bedroom? It would actually look fantastic in there! Cozy, inviting, and probably a space I’d use far more often. Then my upstairs art studio would be empty, and I could turn that into my filming studio. It has a huge window for natural light and plenty of room. All I’d have to do was eliminate the guest bedroom portion.

Cyrus’s lounge, now in my bedroom.

There was just one problem. If I made this switch, I would essentially eliminate my ability to entertain guests. There would be nowhere to sit around and chat, no dining room for dinner parties, and no guest bedroom for anyone to sleep in. I started imagining friends coming to visit and me explaining that they could either stand around my worktable or find a hotel. But then I thought, what if friends from out of town came and we just rented an Airbnb on the beach instead? Wouldn’t that be more fun anyway? And why on earth did I have half of my upstairs studio enshrined to the possibility that someone might come to visit? I was dedicating valuable real estate to imaginary houseguests!

My upstairs studio, now my filming studio.

The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous the conventional arrangement of my house seemed. I had designed my home around what people are supposed to do in a house rather than what I actually do in mine. I had a formal living room for sitting, a dining area for dining, and a guest bedroom for guests who weren’t there. Meanwhile, the thing I love doing more than almost anything else was confined to a designated space.

The next weekend, I rented a U-Haul, recruited a friend with muscles, and we loaded up my entire studio and all the studio furniture and brought it to my house. It took all day, and somewhere in the middle of hauling everything, I wondered if I had completely lost my mind. I could just imagine getting it all into my beautiful living room, looking around, and thinking, “What a stupid idea!” Then having to load it all back into the U-Haul and return it. I really hoped my brilliant inspiration wasn’t going to turn into an expensive exercise program.

I spent the entire weekend setting everything up, emptying bins, organizing my beloved art supplies, rearranging paintings, and shuffling furniture. Even the cat’s litter box had to find a new home. It’s a self-cleaning litter box, so I needed an outlet, which presented a small decorating challenge. But since I’d already sacrificed my guest bedroom and any hope of appearing like a normal person who entertains, I figured an ugly cord running behind the toilet and into the shower of the guest bathroom was a minor concession. Who was going to see it anyway? My nonexistent guests?

As everything came together, I began to fall in love with my new studio. There were worktables where the couch had been, paint carts where the end tables had stood, and shelves of brushes, spray paint, inks, and oils where normal people might display decorative bowls and family photos. Cyrus had been relocated to his new luxury accommodations upstairs, and I had officially reclaimed the most beautiful room in my house for art.

Worktables where the couch used to be.

But something happened that I hadn’t anticipated.

I began noticing how much easier it was to create. I would putter between things, pick up a brush and make a few marks, then move on to a meeting or film something. Creating no longer felt like a production. I didn’t have to go somewhere, change atmospheres, or mentally prepare myself to enter my studio. I didn’t have to overcome that strange resistance that comes with transitioning from one activity to another. Art was simply there, waiting for me, woven into the ordinary rhythm of my day.

I could paint at 5 a.m., 10 a.m., noon, or 8 p.m. The kitchen was right there, so getting a glass of water didn’t become a 30-minute distraction. I could put down a few brushstrokes while waiting for water to boil or something to simmer. I could straighten up a mess, clean a palette, or prep a surface during the 20 minutes before my next meeting. All those little pockets of time that used to disappear into nothing were suddenly opportunities to create. I didn’t have to schedule creativity. I could just reach out and grab it.

The kitchen is right there.

After two weeks of living this way, I’ve been realizing some pretty significant things about myself. First, I no longer need permission to live outside the box. I don’t have to arrange my home according to some unwritten rule about where a couch belongs or what people expect to see when they walk through the front door. For me, a home is a place where creating comes easily. My priorities couldn’t be more obvious. Where a couch would normally face a television, I have a giant worktable covered in the creative mess of the day. Given the choice between sitting in front of a screen and getting my hands into paint, collage papers, spray paint, inks, and oils, I know exactly where I’d rather be.

But the biggest surprise was something I never expected. I began noticing that the way I think was actually changing.

Because I navigate my house differently now, and because what I see around me all day is art and creative materials, my mind is constantly thinking in possibilities. When the olive couch was in view, with Cyrus sleeping peacefully on it, the room invited me to sit down and relax. Now, everywhere I look, something invites me to create. A canvas reminds me of a painting I want to start. A pile of collage papers sparks an idea. A half-finished painting catches my eye, and suddenly I see exactly what it needs. Seeing my enormous collection of paintbrushes a thousand times more often than before has apparently convinced my brain that I should be holding one at every available opportunity.

I started wondering what was happening to the neural pathways in my brain. Was I actually rewiring my habits simply by changing what I looked at every day? I don’t know the neuroscience behind it, but I know what I’m experiencing. My surroundings have changed what I think about, what I want to do, and how I spend my time. I hadn’t realized how much influence my environment had over me until I completely changed it.

And it makes me wonder how much of our lives are being quietly dictated by the environments we’ve created without ever questioning them. How many things do we own because we’re supposed to own them? How much space do we dedicate to activities we rarely do, while the things that make us feel most alive get squeezed into the leftovers?

I’m absolutely thrilled with my new setup. I may regret some of these choices in the future. I may miss having friends over for dinner or having a guest bedroom available when someone visits. I may discover some unforeseen problem that makes me rethink the whole arrangement. After all, I was completely in love with my olive green couch just two months ago, so apparently my commitment to furniture is somewhat questionable.

But I have a feeling I’ll never go back. I may never again see a living room as a place that must be filled with couches, comfy chairs, and coffee tables. I may forever believe that the perfect living room has giant worktables, easels, paint carts, and shelves overflowing with spray paint and brushes.

I’m realizing that freedom isn’t just about having no one telling you what to do. It’s also about recognizing all the rules you’ve been following when nobody was telling you to follow them in the first place.

And sometimes freedom looks like kicking your dog out of the living room and replacing his couch with an easel.

Cyrus’s new spot.

Have you ever made a completely out-of-the-box decision that made you wonder if you’d lost your mind, only to discover it was exactly what you needed? What was it?