There's a point, you stop blaming the house and start wondering how you've lived like this. Not because anything's disastrously broken. The bones are still standing. The ceiling's not leaking. On paper, everything functions. But it also sort of doesn't.

You keep twisting the same sticky doorknob. You avoid that one tile that squeaks even though it's impossible to miss. And the kitchen? A design mystery. You stand in it and think, *Who designed this mess?* You don't even use it often, but the flow makes no sense.

Most people don't renovate because they want to. They do it because they've hit their limit.

That might come off blunt, but once a room stops working, it starts to drag you. You paint over problems — a poster on a hole. But that doesn't stop the feeling: your home isn't working anymore.

Some people start from scratch. Skip bins. Dust clouds for weeks. Others chip away. A new tap here. A paint job there. It's not a matter of right or wrong. Just how much chaos you're okay with.

Budgeting? Ha. That's a wild bet. You write a number down, feel proud, and then something sabotages you. A pipe. A beam. A quote that forgot to mention VAT. You reconsider a skylight and cut something. (Not the dishwasher. Never the dishwasher.)

Still — when it starts to come together? Worth it. Even if the trim isn't perfect. You chose this stuff. You made it yours. That matters. You'll forget the arguments later.

It's not about what the neighbour did. If no upper cabinets makes sense to you, then it makes sense. That's what matters.

Perfect homes aren't real. But the ones that work for you? check here Those stick. You might have to pull up a few floors. Maybe more than a few. Depends on your contractor.