Image: Magazine Cover Photography by Julie Soefer/Courtesy of Traditional Home
The Painting That Watched Over My Childhood Mess Is Now on a Magazine Cover
The irony isn’t lost on me.
When Traditional Home landed in my mailbox earlier this month, I stared at the cover and felt my breath catch. There she was—chin perched in hand, velvet skirt draped too long, sitting atop a disproportionately rotund horse with her usual blend of impatience and disdain.
My mother used to tell us that it was her in the painting, sitting there, waiting impatiently. Waiting for my father to rescue her, she’d say with a laugh that was sarcastic and sad at the same time. He did rescue her, just not in the way she’d dreamed of.
But it wasn’t just the painting staring back at me from that glossy cover.
The Lady on the Horse was my mother.
That same knowing, slightly disgusted expression. That posture of perpetual waiting. That look that said she’d been expecting this moment all along, even if the rest of us hadn’t seen it coming.
The painting has presided over my life for as long as I can remember: watching, judging, enduring. Just like my mother did for her entire life. Which makes it both surreal and somehow inevitable that she’s now the face of my perfectly curated living room, professionally lit above the sleek black marble mantle, gracing the cover of a national magazine.
Image: SFD Media LLC – Artist Unknown
The Chaos She Left Behind
I remember growing up in the house where The Lady on the Horse presided over our wooden mantle. The rare times we were having company—mostly Christmas Eve or big occasions like weddings and funerals—I’d try desperately to clean up, and there she was, looking down with that smug expression as I vacuumed around my mother’s piles.
Boxes of unopened dishes. Stacks of Architectural Digest, and ironically, Traditional Home too, dog-eared and teetering. Newspaper clippings from a decade ago. TJ Maxx bags crammed with items, price tags still attached—her favorite addiction.
I would move the stacks, vacuum under them, move them back. I’d arrange two chairs in front of the fireplace to make it look homey, like something you might see in a shelter magazine. But it was futile. Within a week, the clutter returned.
And through it all, The Lady stood perched high above, looking down knowingly. Unbothered.
My mother, for all her opinions and brilliance, never took fierce control of her own space. She tried. But she succumbed, like many women of that era, to obligation, to limitation, to the exhausting myth that women should sacrifice themselves for everyone else’s comfort.
But she did give me one unshakable belief: that I could do anything. Including this.
When Home Becomes Rebellion
Maybe it was predetermined. I studied those magazines growing up, cut out pictures, and rebuilt fantasy rooms on my bedroom floor with sticky white paste from a jar. I recreated spaces from strangers’ designs and imagined myself as the kind of person who had agency, taste, clarity—the kind of person who could create beauty and order.
For 40 plus years, I’ve been chasing that dream. I designed my homes intentionally, curated them with precision. Because I love to entertain. Because I never wanted to be embarrassed again.
I remember, so vividly, the week before every Thanksgiving. Our house was 900 square feet. No coat closet. Five people. Northeast winters. Every winter coat, snow suit, scarf, and mitten ended up on our dining room table. Stacked to the ceiling.
If I needed a scarf, I’d stick my head into the pile, dig like a miner, and pray it wouldn’t all collapse. And yet, I was expected to clear that mountain and set a holiday table.
So yes, I took aesthetic control like my life depended on it. Because in a way, it did.
You could knock on my door any time of day and there would never be a coat out of place. My kids say I’m the least sentimental person they know about keeping “stuff.” They’re not wrong. Unless something has a purpose, or a story, it doesn’t stay.
Here’s what no one tells you. Breaking generational patterns doesn’t always mean healing. Sometimes it means overcorrecting. While other women might casually toss mail on the counter, I can’t. The sight of clutter sends my nervous system into overdrive.
I buy with intention. I get rid of things without hesitation. I live in spaces so controlled they could be photographed at any moment. Because sometimes they were.
What We Inherit
Women don’t just inherit furniture and family recipes—we inherit shame. And with it, performance. The unspoken belief that a home isn’t a place to live, but a test we’re always being graded on. That mess equals failure. That beauty is proof of value. That if your home doesn’t look put together, you aren’t either.
My mother hoarded because she felt overwhelmed. I purge because I need control. Both responses spring from the same anxious root.
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the point isn’t to break the pattern perfectly. Maybe it’s to transform it into something that serves you.
The Last Laugh
I unwrapped the magazine. Alone. It had just arrived. I opened it, held it in my hands. And it’s hard to describe; it truly took my breath away.
There she was. That face. That posture. That history.
I heard my mother’s voice in my head. I felt her presence, her pride, even her smirk. The irony landed with a weight that surprised me.
Despite all my rebellion, all my careful curation, all my refusal to live in her mess, I still dragged her with me. That painting has moved through every home I’ve created, watching me work obsessively to prove I’m nothing like her.
Except I am. I just wear it differently.
The Legacy I Choose
We’ve been taught to be the Lady on the Horse—composed, lovely, quietly miserable. My mother waited her whole life. I’m not waiting. I’m designing my life, not just my living room.
No matter where I move—and I will move again—she’ll come with me.
She always does.
Now she sits above the fireplace, lit in golden glory, no longer obscured by chaos. Proud. Peaceful. Finally in the setting she longed for but never reached.
I did it for you, Mom.
I cleared the space you deserved but couldn’t claim for yourself.
And now, you’re seen. Remembered. Exactly where you belong.
Today would have been your 95th birthday.
You still get the last laugh.
But so do I.
There are moments in life when we begin to realize who WE want to be, WHO WE are, WHO is that woman, that mother, that presence who gave birth to us, but who is so different from us… WHY do we always feel we have to either live up to her or live away from her…Mothers are like that, they have the most indelible part of us. Your understanding of that relationship, of understanding the divide is eloquently, soulfully and oh, so richly revealed. It is difficult to read at times, as you carried us into your life, your home, your sadness, your yearnings as well as your hope and determination. That you DIRECTED your LIFE, is incredible and we are all so much stronger to do just that..as difficult as it is. Bravo You have touched our infinitely inner core.
Carole, Wow. Your comment… You’ve captured the mother–daughter divide—and that lifelong tug between living up to her and living away from her—with such truth and beauty. That tension is something so many of us carry, often without ever finding the right words. My clarity didn’t hit me until I saw the magazine cover—like I was dancing all around it all these years. Writing this piece was my way of trying to make sense of that push and pull, and hearing you reflect it back is a gift. Directing your own life is the key, right? That’s not easy, especially when the past has such a strong hold. Your words are a reminder that even in the most personal stories, we can meet each other at the deepest places. I’m so grateful you shared this with me. Thank you for showing up here.—susan
No words suffice. Many emotions, many smiles, many tears, sad and happy and hopeful.
Thank you Susan
Freja, Thank you. I am so happy this resonated with you on such an emotional level. I do consider it happy and hopeful. —susan
Wow, this is so moving and real.
Thanks Hannah, Appreciate your comment and for being here. s.
This really hit home. I lived in an apartment with my divorced depressed mom. I found a decorating book in the children’s section of the library. I was alway re-arranging my bedroom. Our apartment was completely cluttered. Sadly my stepmother was the same, but with money. Clutter everywhere. Barrel chairs in the sunroom missing casters. My half sisters would buy new clothes instead of doing laundry. My home is an eclectic mix of inherited pieces which I love. Even though it is neat and clean, if guests are coming I will spend days cleaning from top to bottom including using q tips.
Polly, It’s fascinating how we carry pieces of our past into the spaces we create, even when we’re determined to do things differently. I can picture that decorating book and how it must have felt like a little doorway into another kind of home. I love that you’ve built a space that’s both personal and intentional — and that you still honor the things you’ve inherited. It’s such a powerful mix of self-definition and connection to where we came from. I have been known to use q tips now and then for cleaning all those hard to get to places as well. Thanks for sharing. —susan
This really hit me. Wow Susan! I love the story of the painting and the connections it has brought you throughout your own journey. This one’s a keeper! Happy Birthday to your Mom. xxKay
Thank you Kay! As someone who has know me for a long time, this means a lot. So glad that it resonated with you. xo susan
Love this piece, Susan! The story behind the curation and the cover. Thank you for being vulnerable with us <3
Not giving artist’s name is so disrespectful. Deserves a credit line.
I think you missed the point of the story if that’s all you see.
The artist is unknown.There is no artist signature on the painting which is why there is no credit, otherwise I certainly would have given credit… This painting was done in the late 1800’s and was passed down through my father’s family to my parents. The painting was restored (not properly) and reframed 80+ years ago, the signature has either been cut off and/or has faded under the age. I have added ‘Artist Unknown’ in the caption.
This: “Maybe the point isn’t to break the pattern perfectly. Maybe it’s to transform it into something that serves you.”
And this: “My mother waited her whole life. I’m not waiting. I’m designing my life, not just my living room.”
So much hard-earned wisdom here. Thank you, Susan.
As a “Susan” with an artist mother who was controlling and had unbelievable expectations, I also have a painting that “judges” me. It’s comforting to know someone else “knows” the dysfunction.
Beautiful piece. Especially this: Here’s what no one tells you. Breaking generational patterns doesn’t always mean healing. Sometimes it means overcorrecting.
Great piece! I feel like I’m reading your personal statement! Beautifully written.
Wow. As a former interior designer, this resonated deeply. I too was taught that our homes reflect our worth. I now curate my space for joy and peace—not approval—yet still feel the weight of that legacy. Beautifully written.
Just an amazing, soulful piece. I really enjoyed it. Happy Birthday to your Mom….
Hi Kathy, thank you for such a lovely comment. It was written from years of trying to put all the pieces together and from the heart. So glad you are here. —susan