Why I ignore the ‘Slow Aesthetic’ and chose real life instead

It’s not aesthetic. It’s actual. And that’s the point.

At some point over the last few years, slow living quietly morphed from a radical act of rebellion into yet another curated lifestyle trend.

What used to be a quiet rebellion against the pace and pressure of modern life has somehow become… an aesthetic. A vibe. A filtered grid of beige linen, still-life breakfasts, and curated corners with eucalyptus in a ceramic jug.

And somewhere in all of that… in the neutral-toned houses and the dreamy morning routines and the homes that never seem to have actual people living in them, the real heart of slow living got a little lost.

Let me be clear: I’m not interested in the aesthetic version of slow living. I never have been.

Because I don’t want a life that looks calm. I want a life that feels calm.

And those two are not the same.

Over the last few years, I’ve watched slow living, something I’ve built my whole life and business around, get a glossy filter slapped on it. I started seeing more beige shelves than honest stories. And while my work has always centred around intention and slowness, I felt a growing disconnect between what I saw online and what my days actually looked like.

When Slow Became Another Performance

Somewhere along the way, slow living got swallowed up by the algorithm.

Now it’s all about how serene your shelf looks, whether your kids wear vintage cardigans, and if your sourdough has the right amount of artfully scattered flour beside it. It’s become another thing to measure up to. Another trend to curate. Another lifestyle to get right.

And I don’t know about you, but I didn’t slow down just to feel like I’m constantly falling short in a different direction.

I don’t want to swap hustle culture for hustle aesthetic culture.
I didn’t step away from one pressure cooker just to walk into another.

I’d scroll through Instagram and wonder “is everyone’s house really this calm?”. And more importantly asking myself “why on earth can’t I get it together when everyone else can?”. There were times had a toddler creating chaos in my house while I breastfed the baby. The shelfie aesthetic wasn’t just unrealistic; it felt alien. And I started wondering if anyone else felt like they were trying to live slow in a world that only celebrated the filtered version.

My Life Doesn’t Fit the Aesthetic… On Purpose

I live in a small home. It’s below the average size. It’s a real one. It’s full of books and projects and the sound of kids asking questions and bread dough rising on the side.

There are muddy shoes across the hallway by the door and socks that never quite match and drawings stuck to the wall with tape. Sometimes the kitchen smells like soup and sometimes it smells like someone forgot to take the compost out. It’s not always calm, but it is alive.

Our living room is where we read stories, learn, launch cardboard rockets, do spelling practice, and eat toast on the floor. It’s not beige. It’s not tidy. It’s not aesthetic.

It’s home.

And it’s where I choose slow every day, not for how it looks, but for how it lets us live.

We live in a 650 sq ft split level flat, on the second floor, no garden, just a balcony full of pots (and an allotment a mile away). It’s sometimes tight. It’s loud. It’s constantly full of movement, laughter, and the sound of kids asking a lot of questions. We home educate here. We grow food here. We make messes and memories here. There are no styled corners, just corners with actual function (and sometimes more than one function).

I can’t count the number of times I’ve stepped on a Lego piece while trying to put the washing away, or the days when I’ve wanted to just sit down but couldn’t find a single surface that wasn’t covered in crayons, books or some toys. This is the reality of our life and honestly, I wouldn't trade it. Because the chaos comes with connection. The mess comes with meaning.

For me, slowness now means I get to start the day with my kids creating chaos together while I have a coffee, even if there are dishes in the sink from last night. It means hanging the washing out and noticing how the light is already changing with the season. It means baking focaccia again because that’s what we all actually want to eat. It means saying no to things that used to feel obligatory, and yes to things that feel nourishing, even if they’re not impressive to the internet.

Aesthetic Calm Is Not the Same As Real Calm

Real calm isn’t a soft colour palette or a tidy, bespoke wood kitchen table.
It’s not a tray of herbal tea beside a book you don’t actually have time to read.
It’s not lighting a candle while secretly feeling completely overwhelmed.

Real calm is how you talk to your kids when everyone’s tired.
It’s saying “no” without guilt.
It’s not rushing just because the world says you should.

Real calm is presence.
It’s living within your energy and your means.
It’s making space to notice what’s actually happening, even if what’s happening is a bit noisy and covered in glitter.

And yes, sometimes our home is tidy. Sometimes it’s peaceful and warm and smells like fresh bread and feels like a dream. But that’s not the goal — it’s a byproduct. It’s something I enjoy when it happens, not something I chase.

Slowness Is a Value, Not a Look

Slow living isn’t something you can photograph. It’s not about being calm on the outside. It’s about what you value when no one’s watching.

It’s how you build your days.

How you spend your money.

How you raise your children.

It’s remembering that you don’t have to be everything to be enough.

It’s saying: we don’t have much space, but we have each other.
We can’t do it all, but we can do what matters.
We’re not aiming for perfection, we’re building something more sustainable than that.

And that might not look like much to someone scrolling past.
But it feels like freedom to me.

I used to feel tense if someone turned up unannounced and the house was a tip. I’d apologise for the mess before they’d even stepped inside. Now? Well, I’m still working on that if I am honest. But this isn’t a showroom. It’s a family home that’s lived in. And I won’t apologise for that.

I’m Not Interested in Looking Slow — I Want to Live Slow

I’m not chasing the curated version of slow living. I don’t care if my shelf is styled, my breakfast looks pretty, or if my houseplants are aesthetically pleasing. (They’re not. Most of them are dying let’s be honest).

I care about whether my kids feel heard. About whether I feel heard.
Whether I’m connected to the seasons.
Whether there’s rhythm in our days, room to breathe, and enough margin that we’re not always rushing from one thing to the next.

I don’t want to create a life that looks calm but feels heavy.

I want the kind of life where the focus is on living and not performing.

Where the magic is in the mess, the joy is in the interruptions, and the calm comes from choosing to be here, in it, as we are.

Because when I let go of the calm aesthetic, I finally felt like I could exhale. And I haven’t looked back.

I know now that I don’t want a home and life that looks slow — I want a home that lets us live slowly. I want a life that has enough breathing room for joy and mess and meaning. I want rhythm, not routine. Connection, not control. Real life, not just a beautiful version of it.

So if you’ve ever looked around at the aesthetic of slow living online and thought, “Is that what it’s supposed to look like?” — here’s your permission to let that go.
Your slow life doesn’t need to be tidy, toned-down, or timelessly styled.
It just needs to be yours.

Messy. Seasonal. Homemade. Real.
And if it gives you space to exhale and be more you — that’s what calm really looks like.

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P.S. I’d love to know — have you ever felt like the internet’s version of slow living didn’t quite match up with your reality? What does “real calm” look like in your world? Come and find me on Instagram or hit reply if you're reading this via Substack — I’d love to hear your take.