The Patterns We Live With

Finding beauty, history, and comfort in the everyday home

I spend a great deal of my time thinking about patterns. As a surface pattern designer, I study historical textiles, decorative motifs, and the ways design has evolved through the centuries. I draw, experiment with color, and imagine how my designs might eventually find their way into someone's home.

But I also have another career as a home health physical therapist, one that gives me an interesting perspective on the spaces we inhabit.

In my work, I visit homes of all ages and styles. These aren't necessarily the beautifully curated interiors we see in magazines or across social media. They're lived-in homes, filled with furniture, belongings, memories, and the ordinary evidence of everyday life.

And I've found that there is a great deal of design history tucked into these spaces.

A Home as a Record of Time

One of the things I frequently notice, particularly in older homes, is the wallpaper.

There are traditional florals, bold patterns reminiscent of the 1970s, and decorative styles that immediately suggest a particular era. Sometimes the wallpaper has been there for decades, quietly remaining in place while the world of interior design has continued to change around it.

As someone interested in historical patterns, I find this fascinating.

We tend to think about design trends in terms of what's new, what's popular, and what's coming next. But in real homes, those trends don't simply disappear when the next decade arrives. They become part of the house itself.

A pattern that was fashionable fifty years ago might still be covering the walls of a hallway or bedroom today. What was once a contemporary design has gradually become a small piece of decorative history.

It's a reminder that patterns have lives far beyond the moment they're created.

The Comfort of Handmade Things

Another thing I frequently encounter is handmade textiles, particularly quilts and crocheted blankets.

These are often everyday objects, not carefully displayed heirlooms. They're draped over chairs, folded at the foot of beds, or kept close at hand for warmth and comfort.

As someone who enjoys making things by hand, I have a particular appreciation for these pieces. Crocheting a blanket, or really anything, takes time, patience, and care. It's not something that happens quickly. Each stitch is made individually, building upon the last until eventually those countless small movements become something useful and beautiful.

I also think about the circumstances in which these things are made. Crocheting is often done during quiet moments—sitting comfortably in bed, relaxing on the couch with family, or unwinding at the end of a long day. There's something calming about the repetitive motion of working with yarn. It allows the mind to settle while the hands remain occupied. It's a wonderful combination of being productive and restful at the same time.

And when you consider how many hours go into making a blanket, it becomes something more than just a blanket.

I've often thought that when someone creates something by hand, a little piece of themselves is left behind in the finished work. Not literally, of course, but in the time they've given, the decisions they've made, and the countless small movements of their hands.

In a way, I think of it as something similar to the traits we inherit through generations. Just as certain characteristics are passed down through family lines, a handmade piece carries something of the person who created it. Their particular way of working, their choice of colors, the tension of their stitches, and even the small imperfections become part of the object itself.

And when that object is passed from one generation to the next, those traces of its maker travel with it.

There's something deeply personal about that.

A mass-produced blanket can certainly become a treasured possession through years of use and the memories associated with it. But a handmade blanket begins with something different. Before it ever reaches the person who will use it, someone has already invested hours of their life into its creation.

That's what gives handmade things a certain soul that is difficult to replicate through mass production.

Whether someone makes a piece for themselves or gives it to another person, it's a labor of love. There's time and intention woven into every row.

When I see these handmade textiles being used in someone's home, I appreciate that they're still serving their purpose. They're providing warmth, comfort, and perhaps a sense of familiarity. They don't need to be perfectly preserved or put away for special occasions.

In fact, I think there's something especially beautiful about seeing them well loved and well used.

The beauty of a textile isn't always found in how carefully it's displayed, but in how comfortably it becomes part of someone's life.

Beyond the Perfectly Curated Interior

As designers, we're constantly exposed to beautiful photography of carefully styled rooms. Coordinating fabrics, thoughtfully selected furnishings, and just the right amount of decorative detail create spaces that are visually appealing and inspiring.

But most homes don't look like that. I know mine doesn't. 

Real homes evolve over time. Furniture is purchased at different stages of life. Colors and patterns reflect changing tastes. Objects accumulate, and practical needs often take precedence over a cohesive decorating scheme.

An older floral wallpaper might share a room with a newer sofa. A crocheted blanket might rest on a chair upholstered in an entirely different pattern. Things don't always coordinate, and that's perfectly fine.

These spaces remind me that the purpose of design isn't simply to create a beautiful photograph. It's to become part of everyday life.

And perhaps that's where some of the most interesting combinations of patterns and textiles can be found—not in rooms designed all at once, but in spaces that have developed naturally over many years.

Designing for the Years Ahead

I think these observations have influenced how I approach my own work at Lilyanne Design.

I've always been drawn to historical ornament and traditional decorative styles. I enjoy studying patterns from the past and finding ways to reinterpret them for contemporary interiors.

But seeing how people actually live with textiles and patterns adds another dimension to that interest.

It makes me think about longevity.

When I create a pattern, I don't know where it will eventually end up. It might become wallpaper in a dining room, fabric for a favorite chair, or a textile that someone reaches for on a chilly evening.

And perhaps, years from now, it will still be there.

I like that possibility.

I also think about the process of creating something, and how much of ourselves we put into our work. Whether I'm drawing a pattern, crocheting, or working on a punch needle rug, each piece represents time spent making decisions, solving problems, and working with my hands.

Once it's finished, it goes out into the world and begins a life of its own.

Because while trends will always come and go, the things we choose to surround ourselves with often remain long after those trends have passed. They become familiar parts of our daily routines, quietly collecting the history of the spaces they occupy.

I don't necessarily want to create patterns that will always be fashionable. I'd rather create patterns that people enjoy living with, regardless of what's currently in style.

Something that feels at home in a space, even as everything around it changes.

After all, the most meaningful textiles aren't always the newest, the most expensive, or the most perfectly coordinated. Sometimes they're the faded wallpaper that's been on the walls for forty years or the handmade blanket that's been pulled from the back of the sofa a thousand times.

They're simply part of home.

And I think there's something wonderful about creating designs with that kind of life in mind.

Inspired by the Past, Designed for Today.

These reflections are based on general observations made throughout my work. No individual patients, homes, or identifying details are shared.