What Your Wall Art Says About Your Emotional State

Maximalism, Madness, and the Mood Board I Call a Lounge Room

When I moved into my new flat, the very first box I unpacked was my artwork. Not plates. Not towels. Not even Lulu’s litter tray (he was fine, don’t worry). Just bubble-wrapped frames and an aggressively labelled box that read “WALL STUFF: DO NOT LOSE OR DIE.” Because in my world, a home isn’t a home until it starts shouting your personality from the walls.

I’m not a minimalist. I’m not even wall-space aware. I shipped every piece of art from Adelaide like I was preserving the Louvre. I’ve got floral mandalas carved from mango wood. Frogs in suits. Witches mid-cackle around a bonfire. A print of a cat that looks exactly like Lulu but somehow even more judgemental. Each one is a timestamp from a different era of me, and together? They’re basically my emotional tax return.

My walls are messy, weird, beautiful, and deeply sentimental. They’re a living scrapbook of breakups, glow-ups, delulu spirals, nervous breakdowns, and one glorious Kmart-era where I thought marble contact paper would fix my life. You want to know how I’m feeling? Look at what’s hanging above my mirror and read between the hooks.

The Emotional Rollercoaster Hung With Command Strips

Your wall art doesn’t lie. You can filter your Instagram but you can’t hide the fact you impulse-bought a hot pink canvas of a disco ball because you were going through a depressive episode in heels. I’ve got pieces that scream empowerment, others that whisper sadness, and some that just say, “We’re not okay but at least we’re camp.”

I’ve got SheIn prints (yes, I know, don’t @ me – they were $2 and I was sad) that cost less than my matcha latte, Etsy commissions from artists I follow obsessively, and one painting I did myself that now lives in someone else’s living room. (She paid me in rosé. It felt right.) When I was grieving, I hung soft, floral, dreamy things. When I was angry? Red. Loud. Chaotic. When I was healing? Witchy sisters dancing in circles under full moons. We all have our visual love languages.

Even the boudoir artwork in my spare room is a big fat mood. That’s where I go to remember I’m a hot, dangerous little weapon. The energy in that room is less “guest bedroom” and more “Velvet Underground meets French It Girl with a vendetta.” Art can do that. It can pull you back into yourself. It can remind you that you are more than your anxiety and definitely more than that man who ghosted you in September.

Art as Self-Care with a Side of Chaos

Some people meditate. I rearrange frames until the anxiety calms down. Some people journal. I nail emotional milestones to the wall like a maximalist scrapbooker with a vengeance. My art tells stories that words can’t. I don’t always know why I need a print of a frog with a martini but I know I breathe easier when he’s watching over me.

I’m not here for bland prints that match your lounge cushions but say nothing. I want badgers with monocles. I want collage art that looks like someone had a mental breakdown with a glue stick. I want a velvet painting of a naked witch levitating above a mushroom forest because it feels true. If that makes me unhinged, then hang me up next.

Maximalism isn’t about clutter. It’s about claiming space. I want to walk into every room in my home and feel like I’m being hugged by my past, present, and possible futures. The girl I was, the woman I’m becoming, and the delulu chaos goblin I keep inside my heart. Art is how I love myself out loud.

Classics? I Don’t Know Them

I don’t want Monet. I don’t want Van Gogh. I want Lulu in crown form. I want stilettos, glamour, glitter, weird things, and florals. I want absurdity with meaning. And I definitely don’t want a print that makes people say, “Oh, how tasteful.” I want them to say, “Oh… wow… this is very… you.” That’s the goal. Always.

My artwork isn’t curated for the grid. It’s curated for survival. For giggles. For glam. For the part of me that still believes magic might live behind the pantry door. It’s the loudest part of me made visual. The joy, the grief, the growth, the revenge glow-ups. My gallery wall could write a memoir.

Every piece you hang is a little declaration: “This meant something to me.” Even if it only meant that you needed something shiny and distracting that day. Even if it was bought from Temu at 2am during a sleep-deprived spiral. If it still makes you feel something when you look at it? It’s sacred.

Your Art Is Your Mirror

Your wall doesn’t need to make sense. It needs to make you feel. You’re allowed to love something just because it’s pretty or strange or comforting. You’re allowed to hang things that clash. You’re allowed to display an entire wall of things that make no sense together except they all made sense to you at the time. That’s the point.

I don’t believe in hiding the mess. I believe in showcasing it. In colour. With texture. With emotion. My walls tell me I’m alive. That I’m still changing. That I haven’t given up on joy, no matter how many Tuesday night breakdowns I’ve had. That fluffy black cat print? He watches me like a deity. The floral mandalas? Reminders that calm is always possible, even if fleeting. The witch art? A nod to my strength.

So let your walls be loud. Let them be healing. Let them be delulu or feature a Lulu. Let them be you. Your emotional state deserves to take up space. Let it hang where everyone can see it.

Because the art isn’t the decoration. It’s the diary. And babe, you’re the masterpiece.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

If this post helped, inspired, or made you smile, you can support my work with a tea or tip over on Ko-fi. Every bit helps keep the chaos flowing.