Don’t Worry About Defining Your Interior “Aesthetic”
Why trying to pin it down might be the most unproductive thing you can do.
I’ve always struggled when someone asks, “What’s your style?” And I’ve noticed I’m not alone—so many other interior designers do, too. When we answer, it often sounds like, “Here’s how others have described it,” or, “This is the language I landed on for marketing purposes.” And that’s totally fair.
But still... why is it so hard to answer?
I think I finally cracked it—on a trip to Washington, D.C.
(Stay with me, I promise this isn’t about politics.)
I’ve been lucky enough to travel to places like Rome, Quebec, England, and Thailand. And in all those places, I encountered architecture and design long before I ever really studied the buildings in D.C.—arguably the centerpiece of what’s considered traditional American architecture.
As I walked through the capital, I saw columns that reminded me of the Colosseum. Sculptures with a distinctly Greek influence. Buildings rooted in 18th-century English traditions.
And I thought: We took that from them… and that… and thank goodness we left that part out… oh wow, we should’ve borrowed this too…
Left: Robert E. Lee’s Mansion; Center: Home in Georgetown; Right: Statue outside The White House
That was the “aha” moment.
I realized why defining your aesthetic—especially in interior design—can feel so impossible:
America didn’t start from scratch. And neither do we.
We’re a compilation of everything we’ve seen, loved, edited, or left behind. We draw from our pasts, our experiences, the things that stuck with us—whether we realize it or not.
Even though American architecture is largely derivative, it still feels distinct. Because of how it assembled those influences—what it emphasized, what it reinterpreted.
Even that blend isn’t all-encompassing. So much was left out.
You don’t often see Eastern or Indigenous influences in traditional American design. But what if you did?
What if Native American culture had been honored and integrated into early colonial life and design?
That wouldn’t have made it less American. It would’ve made it a different kind of American.
That’s when it really clicked: even listing all your personal influences—mid-century, traditional, Scandinavian, wabi-sabi, Parisian flea market, coastal grandma—doesn’t define your style.
It’s not wrong, just incomplete.
Because your style isn’t the sum of those references.
It’s the relationship between them.
It’s the interpretation. The edits. The omissions. The timing. The lived-in-ness of it.
In that way, our personal design style—like cultural design—is a patchwork of reactions, memories, and preferences.
At a conference recently, a speaker said, “Everything’s been done before.”
That comment sat with me for days. I kept turning it over, unsure whether I agreed or not.
Where I eventually landed was this:
Okay, maybe. But even if that’s true, it hasn’t been done in the exact same way.
Not at the same time.
Not by this person.
Not in this context.
And that difference? That’s everything.
Maybe that’s why we study history in the first place—so that when the present echoes the past, we can respond with a little more wisdom.
It doesn’t mean the moment is identical. Just that we’ve been given a reference point.
So now, when I find myself thinking, “There’s nothing new,” I try to pause and look again—with curiosity instead of pressure.
Because that’s the beauty of influence: it’s not about replication.
It’s about reinterpretation.
And that’s what your design style really is—a reflection of your own evolving melting pot.
So the next time someone asks, “What’s your style?”—
Feel free to borrow what I say when people ask what kind of dog I rescued:
Smile and say: “A beautiful mutt.” 😊
