The Sunday Room – The Room That Finally Found Its Name.

Before we begin, be sure to press play on The Sunday Room playlist.

Then settle in with your favorite morning drink and join me in my favorite room in the house.

Press Above to Play The Sunday Room

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I’ve spent the last several years trying to decide what to call the first room you see when you walk through the front door.

The Sunroom? Too limiting.

The Library? Too stuffy.

The Front Room? Too obvious.

For a brief—and admittedly dramatic—chapter of life, when I was apparently convinced I lived somewhere on the Downton Abbey estate, it was even called the Drawing Room. (Too obnoxious.)

None of these ever felt quite right.

Because this room wasn’t defined by where it was located or when it was used.

It was defined by how it made us feel.

Somewhere along the way, without ceremony or intention, it became the place where every Sunday morning began. Coffee in hand. Olive & Basil curled up nearby. Music playing softly enough that it became more atmosphere than soundtrack. The pace slowed. The week behind us settled. The week ahead hadn’t quite arrived.

It was – as basic as it sounds – easy like Sunday morning.

And just like that, it had a name.

The Sunday Room.

Every room in our home has a before story and The Sunday Room’s looked like this…

It was beige on beige on…. boring.

But it was also a blank canvas with good lighting, built-in bookshelves, and an excuse to play paper dolls on Canva.

The transformation wasn’t about chasing perfection—it was about creating a room that reflected the life we’d built and the stories we wanted it to tell.

But first, it had to be painted.

Because none of my stories are beige.

My go-to neutrals are Benjamin Moore Revere Pewter (50%) and White Dove and I knew that would set the stage for whatever whims were to come, so I settled in for the design to unfold.

Like every other room rewritten in our home, it all ‘had to go” but ironically, the light fixture overhead in The Sunday Room is the only thing in our entire home that survived the renovation- and my warpath – untouched. Well…almost. Kent is quick to remind me that I couldn’t leave well enough alone and he may or may not have found me on a ladder at 11pm adding just a little gold leaf.

The room staging became something of a scrapbook and somehow ended up being the melting pot for all the pieces that never matched elsewhere in our previous home.

The daybed tucked within the window and perfectly flanked by bookcases is one of those Wayfair “placeholder only” purchases, yet it fit the space so perfectly—within half an inch—that I’ve never been willing to replace it.

My grandmother’s wingback chairs sit proudly nearby, patiently waiting for the day I’ll finally recover them. They’ve been part of my life for as long as I can remember. My father stripped their wood himself years ago—a labor of love that makes it impossible to see them as simply furniture.

Across the room, a little secretary cabinet reminds me of one of my all time favorite DIY projects, working without a net (or dropcloth) and impulsively layering French paint until it became exactly the distressed piece I’d imagined.

Even the shutters framing the front window have their own story. They were rescued from a dusty antique shop before making their way home for another weekend project and a custom paint treatment that transformed them into one of my favorite architectural details in the house.

And then there are the bookshelves. My forever project pending wallpaper and an eventual total redo, but for now, they make me smile.

They’re less about books than they are about memories.

Pieces collected from our travels. Little treasures that most people would probably overlook. Objects that instantly transport us back to a market in France, a tucked-away antique shop, or one of Kent’s many adventures throughout Asia.

Every shelf has quietly developed its own personality, and together they’ve become a visual journal of the places that have shaped us.

I’ve realized that’s what I love most about this room.

Nothing here was designed to impress anyone.

It wasn’t assembled from a showroom or ordered all at once.

It was collected.

Inherited.

Painted.

Rescued.

Remembered.

Layer by layer, story by story.

Travel has always inspired how we live at home. Not because we try to recreate the places we’ve been, but because each journey leaves behind a little reminder of what mattered most. A color. A texture. A book. A piece of pottery. A feeling.

The Sunday Room is where all of those stories quietly come together.

It reminds me every week that beautiful homes aren’t created in a single renovation.

Much like a meaningful life, they’re written one story at a time.

And every Sunday morning…

I get to write another chapter.

Acrylic Coffee Table | Green Velvet Ottoman | Green Leopard Ottoman | Bookshelf Sconces | Animal Print Rug | Rooftop Paris Book | Grand Tour Book

Rooms Rewritten is an ongoing series exploring the rooms we love, the stories they hold, and the quiet ways travel continues to shape the lives we build at home.