There’s something about stepping into a ’70s-inspired home that just feels… easy.
Not perfect, not polished — but lived in, human, warm.
Maybe it’s nostalgia, or maybe people in that decade just knew something we’ve slowly forgotten. The 1970s were a fascinating mix of rebellion and comfort — avocado-colored kitchens, shag rugs that swallowed your feet, and an unapologetic love of pattern and imperfection.
But behind all the lava lamps and funky wallpaper, there was something deeper going on. The homes of that era were designed to feel cozy. They were built around connection, relaxation, and a little bit of imperfection.
Let’s dive into nine home design trends from the ’70s that quietly made life feel cozier — and still can today.
1) Earth tones everywhere
Walk into any 1970s living room and you’ll be greeted by shades of brown, mustard, olive, and burnt orange.
Sounds dated? Maybe. But those colors had a grounding effect. Earth tones mimic nature — they bring a sense of calm and connection. There’s a reason people feel more relaxed in a forest than in a bright white office.
In color psychology, browns and greens signal stability and security, while oranges and ochres spark a low, warm energy that feels like a perpetual golden hour.
I tried repainting my home office a muted clay color last year. Within a week, my focus improved and my anxiety dropped. Coincidence? Possibly. But there’s something about earthy tones that makes a space feel safe — like the walls are giving you a quiet hug.
Maybe that’s what the ’70s understood better than we do now: your environment isn’t just visual, it’s emotional.
2) The joy of texture
Think about the last time you ran your hand over a shag rug or a corduroy cushion. There’s something immediately comforting about texture.
The ’70s homes were full of it — macramé wall hangings, chunky knit throws, rough stone fireplaces, rattan furniture, woven lampshades. It wasn’t about minimalism or pristine surfaces; it was about touch.
We forget that coziness isn’t visual. It’s sensory. Texture gives your body something to engage with. It invites you to feelyour environment instead of just look at it.
When I stayed in a cabin in Big Sur a few years ago, the walls were paneled, the blankets wool, the air heavy with cedar. I didn’t want to leave. Later, I realized why — the space felt like it was built to be felt, not photographed.
Texture tells your nervous system: “You can relax here.”
3) Open living, not open plans
Before “open concept” became an HGTV catchphrase, the ’70s nailed a more organic kind of openness.
Kitchens flowed into dining areas. Conversation pits drew people in. But there were still boundaries — visual cues that separated one zone from another.
You could chat with friends while cooking without feeling like you were on display. There was community without chaos.
Modern open plans can feel overwhelming — one massive space where smells, sounds, and stress all blend together. The ’70s had a more human rhythm: open enough for connection, defined enough for calm.
I sometimes wonder if we traded coziness for convenience.
4) The rise of the houseplant jungle
If you’ve scrolled through Instagram lately, you’ve probably noticed the explosion of indoor plants. That’s not new — it’s the ’70s, reborn.
Back then, every home seemed to have a jungle corner. Spider plants dangled in macramé slings, ferns flanked fireplaces, vines crept up curtain rods.
It wasn’t just about decoration. People were instinctively drawn to nature, long before we called it biophilic design. Decades later, research confirmed what they already knew: plants reduce stress, clean the air, and increase a sense of well-being.
I’ve mentioned this before, but my apartment in L.A. doesn’t feel “alive” unless the plants are thriving. When they wilt, I feel it. When they flourish, I breathe easier.
The 1970s embraced that connection without needing to intellectualize it. They simply filled their spaces with life.
5) Furniture built for lounging
In the ’70s, furniture wasn’t stiff or sculptural — it was inviting. Sofas were deep, cushions were plush, beanbags were practically everywhere.
It was the decade of lounging. People watched TV together, listened to vinyl, or spent lazy Sunday afternoons reading paperbacks on the floor. Furniture wasn’t designed to impress your guests; it was designed to make them stay longer.
Today, much of our furniture feels like it’s auditioning for a design award. Beautiful, sure. But not comfortable.
A friend of mine recently bought a mustard corduroy sectional — very ’70s, very low to the ground. She said, “It feels like the couch forgives me.” I knew exactly what she meant.
That kind of softness — emotional and physical — makes a home feel human.
6) Wood paneling (and why it worked)
Yes, I said it. Wood paneling.
It gets a bad rap now, but those walls added warmth, depth, and texture in a way drywall just can’t. Wood reflects light softly. It changes tone throughout the day. It gives a room rhythm.
The psychology behind it is simple: we evolved in nature. Surroundings that echo natural materials make us feel secure. There’s a quiet primal comfort in being around wood.
You don’t have to go full cabin mode — even a reclaimed shelf, a wooden dining table, or bamboo blinds can reintroduce that organic touch.
I once stayed at a small eco-lodge in Costa Rica where every room had a single wooden accent wall. It instantly shifted the mood — less “hotel,” more “home.”
The ’70s did that instinctively.
7) Lamps, not overhead lights
Here’s one that deserves a comeback immediately: the ’70s obsession with lamps.
Mushroom lamps, amber glass shades, ceramic bases — the decade was full of soft, layered light. Instead of blasting everything with overhead brightness, lighting was treated like atmosphere.
Warm light has been shown to reduce cortisol and signal safety to the brain. Overhead LED lights, by contrast, trigger alertness — great for offices, terrible for relaxing.
A few years ago, I swapped every bulb in my apartment for warm, low-watt ones and added three small lamps. My evenings changed overnight. I started reading more, scrolling less, and sleeping better.
Lighting might be the cheapest mood shift you can make. The ’70s figured that out decades before the wellness industry caught up.
8) The art of imperfection
The 1970s were gloriously imperfect. Handmade pottery. Crooked picture frames. Patterns that clashed in the best possible way.
Homes felt real. They weren’t curated — they were collected. And that made them deeply comforting.
Perfection is sterile; imperfection feels alive. There’s a Japanese concept called wabi-sabi that celebrates the beauty of flaws and time. The ’70s embodied that idea without even naming it.
I’ve started embracing this at home. A cracked vase I refuse to throw away. A slightly faded rug that tells a story. These details whisper: someone lives here.
We crave that authenticity — spaces that remind us we don’t have to have everything “just right” to feel at peace.
9) Spaces that told stories
Maybe the biggest thing that made ’70s homes cozy was this: they told stories.
Every room was personal. Family photos, framed album covers, travel mementos, postcards — it all blended together in imperfect harmony.
Nothing matched, but everything meant something.
These weren’t spaces curated for visitors or cameras. They were built for the people who lived in them.
In psychology, there’s a concept called environmental self-continuity — the idea that your surroundings help you maintain your sense of identity. The ’70s nailed that.
Your home was a mirror, not a showroom. It reminded you of who you were, who you loved, and what you cared about.
When I look around my own living room, the things that make me smile aren’t the new purchases — they’re the memories: a vintage poster from a Berlin flea market, a worn-out guitar in the corner, a chipped mug from a road trip.
That’s coziness — not just warmth, but meaning.
The bottom line
The 1970s weren’t perfect. But their homes had soul.
They reminded us that coziness isn’t something you buy — it’s something you build. Through color, texture, imperfection, and personality.
A cozy home doesn’t whisper “look at me.” It says, “come in, stay awhile.”
Maybe that’s what we’re all craving again — not more space, but more connection. Not more furniture, but more feeling.
The best part? You don’t need to renovate to capture that. Start small. Add a lamp. Hang a plant. Let your home tell your story — flaws, warmth, and all.
That’s what the ’70s got right.
What’s Your Plant-Powered Archetype?
Ever wonder what your everyday habits say about your deeper purpose—and how they ripple out to impact the planet?
This 90-second quiz reveals the plant-powered role you’re here to play, and the tiny shift that makes it even more powerful.
12 fun questions. Instant results. Surprisingly accurate.