Last month, I stood in what used to be a stunning 1920s craftsman home, now reduced to water-damaged drywall, warped hardwood, and the lingering smell of mold. The owners – a young couple who'd bought their dream house just six months earlier – looked devastated. But honestly? I was excited. Not about their misfortune, obviously, but about the opportunity ahead of us.
You see, there's something magical about restoration work when you approach it through a biophilic lens. It's not just about bringing something back to its original state – it's about creating something that honours the past while embracing principles that actually support human wellbeing.
And frankly, most historical interiors, beautiful as they were, weren't designed with our modern understanding of how natural elements affect our physiology.
I've been doing restoration work for about eight years now, and I've learned that the most successful projects happen when you stop thinking about restoration as pure preservation and start thinking about it as conscious evolution. Sounds pretentious, I know, but hear me out.
Take that craftsman house I mentioned. The original 1920s design had these gorgeous built-in bookcases and beautiful millwork, but the rooms were compartmentalized in a way that blocked natural light from penetrating beyond the front windows. The kitchen was a dark cave at the back of the house. Sure, we could've restored it exactly as it was – and plenty of purists would argue we should have – but that would've meant recreating spaces that actually worked against human health and happiness.
Instead, we developed what I call a "respectful intervention" approach. We kept every piece of original millwork we could salvage, restored the hardwood floors using traditional techniques, but strategically opened sight lines between rooms to improve light flow. The key was understanding which elements truly defined the home's character versus which were just products of outdated living patterns.
The trickiest part of restoration work isn't the technical stuff – though Lord knows there's plenty of that. It's navigating the emotional weight people attach to "authenticity." I can't tell you how many times I've had clients initially resist suggestions that would dramatically improve their daily experience because they felt it would compromise the home's "integrity."
There's this house I worked on in Philadelphia – a gorgeous 1890s rowhouse that had been chopped up into apartments in the 1960s. The new owners wanted to restore it to single-family use, but they were adamant about keeping everything "period appropriate." Problem was, the original layout had exactly one small window in the kitchen and basically no connection to the back garden. Following their initial vision would've meant spending $200,000 to recreate a space that would've made them miserable every morning while making coffee.
It took three months of gentle education – showing them examples of similar homes where we'd successfully integrated modern livability needs with period character – before they agreed to a kitchen extension with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking their garden. Two years later, they told me that morning coffee time had become their favorite part of the day. That's what good restoration should accomplish.
The sustainability angle is huge too, though people don't always think about it initially. Restoration is inherently sustainable – you're preserving embodied energy in existing materials rather than manufacturing everything new. But you can take it further. In that Philadelphia rowhouse, we sourced reclaimed heart pine flooring from a demolished warehouse, had the original window sashes rebuilt rather than replaced, and integrated a greywater system that waters their restored period garden.
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I've gotten really interested in what I call "materials archaeology" – understanding not just what materials were used originally, but where they came from and how we can source similar materials sustainably today. For a Victorian restoration in Baltimore, we tracked down the original quarry that supplied the brownstone and found they were still operating. The new stone wasn't identical – quarries change over 150 years – but it came from the same geological formation. The colour variations actually enhanced the repair work rather than making it obvious.
One thing that drives me crazy about restoration TV shows is how they make everything look so clean and straightforward. Real restoration is messy, unpredictable, and full of surprises. I've opened walls expecting to find standard balloon framing and instead discovered post-and-beam construction that completely changed our approach. I've found newspapers from 1923 used as insulation (fascinating to read, by the way). I've encountered structural modifications that made no sense until we realised they were accommodating a long-gone dumbwaiter system.
The detective work is honestly half the fun. Before starting any project, I spend weeks researching the home's history – building permits, insurance maps, family records if available. I want to understand not just how the house was built, but how it was lived in. This informs decisions about which modifications serve the building's essential character versus which were just random changes over time.
Colour selection is where I see the most anxiety from homeowners. Everyone's terrified of getting period colours "wrong," but here's the thing – period colours changed constantly based on available pigments, fashion, and individual taste. What matters more is understanding the principles behind historical colour choices and adapting them to contemporary needs.
For that craftsman house, we ended up using a palette inspired by the Arts and Crafts movement but adjusted for better light reflection. The original dark greens and browns would've felt oppressive with modern furniture and lighting patterns. Instead, we chose warm neutrals with sage and terracotta accents that honored the period aesthetic while creating spaces that feel energizing rather than somber.
Plant integration is where restoration gets really exciting for me. Historical homes often had elaborate garden relationships that got lost over time as properties were subdivided or landscapes changed. I love researching period-appropriate plantings, but adapting them for current growing conditions and maintenance realities.
The Victorian in Baltimore came with a tiny back courtyard that had been paved over in the 1970s. Original insurance maps showed it had been an elaborate garden space with a greenhouse.
We couldn't recreate the greenhouse – zoning wouldn't allow it – but we designed raised beds using salvaged brick that referenced the original layout while accommodating contemporary organic gardening practices.
What I've learned is that successful restoration requires holding two seemingly contradictory ideas simultaneously: deep respect for historical craftsmanship and materials, combined with willingness to adapt spaces for contemporary human needs. The houses that feel most alive are those where this balance is struck thoughtfully.
People sometimes ask if I ever feel guilty about changing historical structures. Not really. Buildings are meant to be lived in, not preserved as museums. The most respectful approach to restoration is ensuring these beautiful old structures continue serving human lives well into the future. That requires thoughtful adaptation, not rigid preservation.
Every restoration project teaches me something new about both historical building practices and contemporary human needs. It's work that satisfies on multiple levels – honoring skilled craftspeople from the past, creating healthier spaces for current occupants, and preserving resources for future generations. Plus, there's something deeply satisfying about bringing a neglected building back to life, watching families create new memories in spaces that hold decades of history.
