To a 6 year old girl, my grandma Dorothy’s home was magical. It wasn’t large, but it was filled with with decorative beauty: exquisite porcelain figurines, ornate roses painted on oil canvases, gold-leafed glass plates displayed in curio cabinets, depression-glass light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, thick drapes tied back with golden tassels, and amber-colored glassware stacked neatly in the kitchen cabinets. In my mind, her home was as extravagant as Napoleon’s apartments in the Louvre, and I loved every part of it. Truly, a little girl’s dream. It’s a miracle that I didn’t ruin all her beautiful glass decorations with my childhood wonder and fascination, but my grandma Dorothy trusted me around her beautiful treasures. In fact, for each birthday (even my first), she sent me a Growing up Girls figurine to display in my own bedroom.
But my favorite part of my grandma’s house was her bathroom—the pink sink, pink tub, pink bath mats and fuzzy bubble gum pink towels that were draped throughout. The counter was sprawled with lipsticks, rose-colored creams, and perfumes. I loved sneaking through her bathroom cabinets to discover handmade seashell-shaped soaps. Having not lived through the 60’s and 70’s, I’d never seen a pink bathroom before, and I was overcome with inspiration. Were grown adults allowed to have bubble gum pink towels in their bathrooms? Was I allowed to decorate with bubble gum pink? How was my grandma allowed to decorate with so much color? WHO GAVE HER PERMISSION? I’d never seen an adult embrace so much beauty. And who could give me that same permission?
Starting with the gifts my grandma Dorothy gave me, I began collecting my own porcelain treasures, expanding to dolls and my own versions of porcelain keepsakes. I had dozens of porcelain dolls on display in my bedroom—until I was 17 and someone pointed out that they thought the dolls were creepy. How could beautiful hand painted dolls be creepy? I couldn’t understand. But in my efforts to seek peer acceptance, I quietly packed my dolls away and hid them in my closet. The spurned dolls hidden in their boxes—a symptom of prioritizing acceptance over my own preferences.
I’d venture to guess that most of us have made decisions in our lives to fit in. Sometimes, seeking acceptance has helped us survive. Sometimes, it’s just become a habit. Sometimes, it becomes all we know, and we don’t even recognize what we want because all that’s ever mattered was whether we were accepted by others.
I have a long standing history of trying to fit in. As an adult, I once bought a mini-van when my daughter started preschool because I thought that preschool moms were “supposed to” have minivans. I hated that damn van. I drove it resentfully for 2 years until I couldn’t stand it anymore, and then I finally traded it in for a less expensive car that I’d actually wanted. Wasn’t I “supposed to” have a van? Wasn’t I “supposed to” love driving carpools for my children’s friends?
When we moved to Central Texas, I decorated our entire home in Joanna Gaines farmhouse decor because everyone else near Waco, TX was doing that too. Maybe it’s the years of therapy I’ve done or maybe it’s an inevitable process as we age, that we care less about fitting in. We let go of the unnecessary “obligations” to others that are no longer serving us. Our obligations of acceptance and approval from others. We learn to more deeply accept the parts of ourselves that we’ve felt forced to mask.
There was something magical about returning to my grandma Dorothy’s house each summer: beauty that served no other purpose than to bring her joy. I witnessed a grown woman who surrounded herself with the things that felt beautiful to her. How often do we only validate our surroundings based off of function instead of artistic appeal? If something isn’t functional, we toss it. Without giving value to the things that serve no other purpose than to bring us joy in their beauty. Even if no one else finds our “treasures” beautiful.
My beautiful grandma Dorothy went by “Dot” as a child. Inspired by her love of unique beauty, I created the Dottie Collection—a whimsical flashback to my childhood at my grandma Dorothy’s house and who I imagine her to have been as a child. The childlike purity of not valuing social acceptance. The ease of recognizing beauty without a clouded filter. May the Dottie Collection inspire you and your loved ones to keep chipping away at the need for acceptance. May you be inspired to embrace and celebrate the childlike wonder from days past. May you surround yourself with the things that are truly beautiful to you.
And yes, I absolutely decorate my current house with pink.
This week, in addition to paintings & painted cards, I’m launching handprinted gift tags. You can order my Dottie Paintings and gift tags here.
Gorgeous 💕 My former mother in law was a dottie. Thank you for stimulating precious memories of her 💖 Your writing is truly gorgeous and art as well. Thank you for sharing your gifts.
Oh wow—Dottie must have been quite a common name at the time. Thank you for your kind and thoughtful words about my writing and art ❤️❤️I truly appreciate what you said ❤️