Simplicity Isn’t All It’s Cracked Up to Be

We’re constantly told to simplify our lives. Cut the clutter. Reduce the noise. Choose joy—but only if it fits in a color-coded drawer.
And while I love the idea of peace and order as much as the next woman scrolling Pinterest in her bathrobe, I have to say…it’s not all that fulfilling.

I can divide my life into many “seasons,” and let me tell you—very few have been simple. And the ones that were? Looking back, they were often the least satisfying. In fact, I wanted them to end as fast as possible.

Take college, for example. I had a roommate. No car. My days revolved around school, church, and overly enthusiastic discussions about Jesus and the finer points of Paul’s letters in the dorm lounge. Summer held fun plans. Life was good… and simple. And I couldn’t wait for it to end. I craved the next step: a career, marriage, a family—the real-life stuff!

Another “simple” time? Early in my marriage to Craig, when we were navigating infertility and then the adoption process. I distinctly remember walking into the office at my school, smiling at the secretary, and announcing, “Now that our adoption is complete, the life drama is over.”
Ha. Oh, past me. So sweet. So clueless.

I had no idea how simple life had been without children. I mean, getting ready for work used to be a calm, solo affair. I didn’t have to negotiate over socks or mediate cereal-related arguments. Life may not have been predictable, but it was—comparatively—peaceful.

Now, oddly enough, I’m in another “simple” season. There’s calm. Repetition. Rhythms. And I find myself itching for the next phase, the next act, the next adventure.

And here’s the funny thing—I love the aesthetic of simplicity. I swoon over white-on-white rooms and soft cream color palettes. I adore white flower gardens. Clean, crisp, calm. It speaks to something in me. But when I look around my actual home? It’s layered in deep reds, earthy greens, and warm golds. Plants spill over every windowsill. Patterned rugs lie like storybooks across the hardwood floors. I couldn’t decorate with a minimalist scheme even if I tried. My life looks exactly how it feels—bold, messy, and lived-in.

The truth is, I struggle with stillness. I wrestle with the quiet. I rarely appreciate the growth, transformation, and—dare I say—chaos that bloom in the messy seasons of life. But they’re often the most meaningful chapters, even if they come with a backdrop of busy kids and sticky countertops.

So here I am, trying to embrace the calm without itching for the next storm. I may crave simplicity—in my schedule, my spirit, and even my home décor—but apparently, I’m more red wine and Persian rugs than sparkling water and shiplap.

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