Watch an episode of Fixer Upper or flip through the latest issue of Southern Living, and you’ll come away convinced every Southern woman was born knowing how to decorate a house.
That’s a lie. Don’t fall for it.
My decorating style lives somewhere between trailer park fabulous and Biltmore House. There is no middle ground. Left to my own devices, I’ll either recreate Versailles or accidentally furnish my bedroom like a pawn shop that specializes in Elvis memorabilia.
Even when I manage to rein in my trashier instincts, I have absolutely no idea how to arrange pretty things so they actually look… pretty. Or cohesive. Or like they belong in the same room.
For the last twenty-five years, I’ve relied on Brandon.
He has better taste than I do, and more importantly, he’s willing to look me dead in the eye and say, “Absolutely not. That’s hideous.”
A little hurtful? Sure.
Necessary? Also yes.
It’s how he finally convinced me to get rid of the giant red 1970s chair he’d lovingly nicknamed “the pimp chair.” Looking back, he was right. I hate admitting that.
Brandon deserves a lot of credit for teaching me that just because somebody is selling a rainbow watercolor map of Western North Carolina doesn’t mean it belongs in my house. (And, yes. There is one in my house.)
But here’s the thing. He’s not an interior decorator either.
He knows when something looks bad. He just doesn’t always know how to make it look good.
So I did what everybody does.
I opened Pinterest.
Five minutes later, I closed Pinterest.
Apparently every decorating solution begins with spending $8,000 on furniture and another $600 on decorative beads that serve no known purpose.
That wasn’t what I needed.
I didn’t want to buy a whole new room. I wanted somebody to look at the things I already owned and tell me why they looked like I’d lost a bet.
Then I remembered Bug and Belle complaining about people using AI to do everything these days.
Write papers.
Make art.
Decorate their homes.
Hold on…
Decorate their homes?
I ignored my two little Luddites and decided I’d rather take decorating advice from a chatbot than spend thousands hiring someone to come tell me my dresser looked cluttered.
Enter Grok.
I walked into my bedroom and started taking pictures.
First the dresser.
Then the blanket chest.
Both were covered with things I genuinely loved. Antique pieces. Family photos. Books. Crystal. But somehow, together, they looked like I’d walked through the house grabbing random objects with both arms and dumped them wherever I stopped.
WHY?
What was I doing wrong?
I uploaded the pictures to Grok and asked how it would style the room for @dogwoodblooms. Then I asked it to show me what those suggestions would actually look like using my own photos.
While it was generating images, I figured if they turned out awful, I could always blame the robot.
Turns out I didn’t need an excuse.
The suggestions were… good.
Really good.
The dresser was the first project.
I’d centered an antique pitcher and bowl, stacked books off to one side, scattered family photos around, and added a couple of jewelry dishes that had slowly become catchalls for mine and Brandon’s assorted crap.
I’d convinced myself it looked collected.
It actually looked accidental.
So I gave Grok more context.
I’m a maximalist. I’m traditional. I love antiques. I want the room to feel warm, collected, Southern, and lived in.
Instead of throwing random ideas at me, it started asking questions.
Did I want symmetry or something more relaxed?
Was I open to buying anything?
What pieces absolutely had to stay?
It felt less like a search engine and more like chatting with somebody who actually knew what they were doing.
We settled on a few simple principles I’d never really considered: group things in odd numbers, vary the heights, give the arrangement anchors, and leave a little breathing room.
Nothing revolutionary.
Just intentional.
I bought exactly three things: a vintage lamp, a candlestick, and a plant.
Everything else was already sitting in my house.
I rearranged it with a little purpose instead of piling it wherever it fit.
Then I stepped back.
Well…
I’ll be damned.
It looked like it belonged in somebody else’s house.
Somebody with taste.
Feeling entirely too confident, I turned my attention to the blanket chest.
Bless its heart.
For years it’d been less of a decorating feature and more of an emergency storage unit for shoes, laundry baskets, and whatever else didn’t have a home.
Grok walked me through building layers instead of piles—a tray, a stack of books, another plant, and one taller piece to pull your eye upward.
I’d rearrange things, snap another picture, upload it, get feedback, move everything again, and repeat the process.
Eventually, we both agreed.
Perfection.
A little while later, Brandon walked into the bedroom.
He stopped.
Backed up.
Looked around.
“Who did this?”
“I did.”
He looked at me.
“No, you didn’t.”
I laughed.
“I absolutely did.”
Well… me and a chatbot.
Turns out we’re a surprisingly effective decorating team.
Now, before anybody panics, I’m not saying AI is replacing Brandon, Joanna Gaines, or the good Lord’s gift of taste—which some people clearly received in greater quantities than others.
It didn’t walk through my house. It doesn’t know the afternoon sun turns our bedroom golden around five o’clock. It doesn’t know Brandon’s mama stitched that needlepoint hanging on the wall, and I’d sooner sell a kidney than part with it.
Some things still require a human heart.
But if you’ve ever stood in your own house looking at furniture you love and wondering why none of it works together, having something explain why can make all the difference.
It gave me a starting point.
It gave me confidence.
And for the first time in my life, I actually feel like I can decorate my own home.
Two spaces down.
The rest of the bedroom—and the entire rest of the house—to go.
I’ll keep y’all posted on whether this AI-assisted decorating adventure lands me in Southern Living… or gets me committed.
At this point, I wouldn’t bet against either outcome.
