I'm a Home Editor and Here's the One Furniture Trend I'm Officially Done With

I’m just going to say it: The era of marshmallow furniture is officially exiting the design scene.You know the look. Soft neutral hues. Nubby bouclé textures. Sofas curved like melted meringue and chairs that resemble fancy gumdrops. They whispered Parisian chic, screamed content-ready and promised comfort. But here’s the hard truth: These pieces never really delivered. And now? We’re waking up from the aesthetic nap, neck cricked, wondering why our living rooms feel more like a showroom than a sanctuary.

To understand how we got here, allow me to rewind. Before the marshmallow furniture moment, we were knee-deep in modern farmhouse. Joanna Gaines reigned supreme, and with her came a wave of shiplap walls, sliding barn doors and matte black hardware. Homes leaned rustic and clean—a curated kind of country, filtered through HGTV’s lens. But then the pandemic hit. Early lockdown caused Gaines’s aesthetic to feel like a staged Airbnb—high-contrast, guest-ready and entirely too polished for life on pause. We wanted to be somewhere—anywhere—that wouldn’t remind us of the “before times.” So, the algorithm handed us an ethereal escape hatch. 

Almost overnight, designers on Instagram revived Jean Royère’s curvy silhouettes, and bouclé surged alongside. Low-slung couches. Textured headboards. Chairs and ottomans that pulled design inspo from polar bears. The curves and texture wrapped the edges of our days—cozy enough to sink into yet polished enough to feel like we hadn’t lost touch with glamour. It was exactly what we craved: comfort that still promised there was an outside worth dressing up for.

What started as a Royère homage, however, quickly devolved into algorithmic frenzy. In 2022 and 2023 (aka the copy-and-paste years), influencer collabs begat big-box knockoffs. Suddenly, the look was everywhere: Amazon, Wayfair, Target, you name it. The more the aesthetic spread, the more diluted it became; the aesthetic lost what made it feel special in the first place. Marshmallow furniture became another performance—a curated backdrop for morning matcha shots and get-ready-with-me vlogs.

Ironically, the rise—and fall—of this movement is a perfect metaphor for the times. In the early pandemic days, our spaces became private sanctuaries. We read books. We made sourdough. We rewatched Friends on repeat. And marshmallow pieces mimicked that: the cloudlike curves promised to envelop us, offering comfort. But as the world lurched back into motion, so did the pressure to look OK. Suddenly, the same spaces that had offered safety were expected to be backdrops—staged, styled, camera-ready. Living rooms weren’t for living anymore; they were our evidence, as we welcomed people back inside, that we were OK. 

So now, the facade seems to be cracking—both literally and metaphorically. We’re no longer in the mood to pretend that minimalism equals mental stability or that cream furniture equals control. Not to mention that bouclé pills. Cheap foam feels stiff as a board. Every crumb becomes a cairn—and pet hair clings to the neutrals like it pays rent. One rogue espresso shot and you’re on the floor at 2 a.m., frantically Googling enzyme sprays.

As a result, designers are responding with moodier palettes, gritty materials and timeworn silhouettes. Brands like Lulu and Georgia and Roman and Williams Guild are leading the charge, favoring patina over polish and one-of-a-kind over mass-produced. I’m seeing charcoal velvet, oxblood leather and mohair replacing the endless oat-hued bouclé. Curves aren’t gone, but they’re evolving—scalloped edges, pleated backs and slouchy slip-covered frames. And while you’ll still spot a $9,000 bouclé chair on 1stDibs, its digital hold is loosening. 

Because now, comfort now means something else. We’re not staging for the grid—we’re designing for spaces that feel authentically you.