I’ve been standing outside this half-demolished Victorian for like twenty minutes now, watching these demo guys take a sledgehammer to what’s probably an original mantelpiece, and honestly? I’m getting weirdly emotional about it. My coffee’s gone cold and I’m pretty sure I’m about to ugly-cry on a public sidewalk, but here we are.
The whole thing is just… painful to watch. Here’s this beautiful old house with incredible bones getting turned into literal trash, and meanwhile I’m over here obsessing over how to make my 400 square foot studio feel less like a cave. The irony is not lost on me.
My upstairs neighbour texted me about this place last week.
“Thought you’d want to see this before they finish tearing it down,” she wrote. I didn’t want to see it, honestly. These situations just make me feel helpless and angry. But I came anyway because sometimes you need to witness what we’re losing.
This Victorian has everything I dream about in my tiny apartment – 12-foot ceilings, original hardwood floors (beat up, but still gorgeous), and these massive windows that someone inexplicably decided to board up at some point. You can tell the bones are solid just by how the morning light filters through the gaps in the plywood. This house wants to live again.
Instead, they’re scraping it for some generic new build that’ll probably have 8-foot ceilings, vinyl everything, and windows sized to barely meet code requirements. Nothing wrong with new construction, but when you’ve got good bones like this? It feels wasteful and sad.
I’ve been following this architecture restoration account on Instagram for a while now (@oldhouselove if you’re into that kind of thing), and some of their before-and-after posts are absolutely wild. The best transformations I’ve seen always start with buildings that have history. There’s something about working with existing architecture that forces creativity – figuring out how to honour what came before while making it work for modern life.
Like, I saw this post about a 1920s textile mill in Portland that developers wanted to completely gut for generic loft apartments. Instead, they kept the massive timber frame structure, restored these huge clerestory windows that had been covered with metal panels, and used the existing concrete floors for thermal mass. The result looked amazing – spaces that actually worked with natural light cycles and stayed comfortable year-round without cranking the heat or AC constantly.
But what really got me excited about that project was this network of skylights they discovered that had been sealed over for decades. When they reopened them, the whole central hallway became this light-filled spine where people actually wanted to hang out. Kids played in the light pools, neighbours talked to each other. All because they restored something that was already there instead of starting from scratch.
The thing about restoration work that I find fascinating is how it requires a completely different mindset than new construction. You’re not imposing your vision on a blank slate – you’re having a conversation with the building. What did the original architects understand about light and airflow that we’ve forgotten? How were spaces originally designed to connect to the outdoors?
I learned this lesson from a renovation disaster I followed on TikTok – this couple bought a 1950s ranch that had been “updated” multiple times, each renovation making it worse. The kitchen had been moved to the interior (why??), the original walls of windows facing the backyard had been partially filled in, and someone had installed a drop ceiling that blocked clerestory windows.
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Their first instinct was to demo everything and start fresh. Thankfully they ran out of money, which forced them to work more carefully and understand why things were where they were. When they removed that drop ceiling and reopened the clerestory windows, they realised the original architect had designed this passive cooling system that used natural convection to move air through the house. Genius.
They ended up restoring that natural ventilation system and moving the kitchen back to its original spot where it caught morning light and connected to the garden. Just by removing obstacles to the building’s original design, the house came alive again. Their energy bills dropped by 40% and they started actually using their space for entertaining.
Restoration isn’t always about going backward, though. Sometimes it’s about understanding the original intent and updating it for how we live now. I saw this amazing project where they took a 1960s elementary school – one of those flat-roofed brutalist buildings everyone assumes should be torn down – and realised the architects had created courtyards designed to extend classroom learning outdoors. Over the years, budget cuts meant the courtyards got filled with temporary buildings and parking.
Instead of recreating 1960s landscaping, they restored the original concept but updated it with current knowledge about outdoor learning, native plants, and stormwater management. The courtyards became outdoor classrooms again, but ones that also handled drainage, provided wildlife habitat, and offered year-round learning about natural systems.
The material restoration aspect is something I find really compelling too. These old buildings often contain wood species that aren’t available anymore, or local stone from quarries that have been closed for decades. There are craftspeople who specialize in restoring original plaster walls (apparently way better for humidity than drywall), refinishing original hardwood to highlight grain patterns, and repairing rather than replacing old windows.
I saw this incredible restoration video where they brought back chestnut beams in an 1800s farmhouse – wood that literally can’t be harvested anymore because of some historical blight. The homeowners originally wanted to cover them with drywall for a “cleaner” look. Instead, they cleaned and restored them, and now they’re the focal point of the living space. People in the comments kept talking about wanting to touch them. That connection to natural materials that have aged and developed character over centuries? You just can’t fake that.
That farmhouse project also showed how old buildings often have built-in wisdom about working with natural cycles. The windows were positioned to maximize winter solar gain and minimize summer heat. The roof overhangs provided perfect seasonal shading. The kitchen was located to catch morning light and connect to the herb garden.
Basically all the biophilic design principles I’m trying to recreate in my studio, except they figured it out a century before we had Instagram accounts dedicated to “bringing nature indoors.”
I’m not trying to romanticize the past – plenty of old buildings have serious issues with insulation, accessibility, and structural problems. But our default “tear it down and start over” approach seems like we’re wasting incredible opportunities to create spaces that connect people to nature while preserving architectural history.
The Victorian I’m staring at right now? In the right hands, those huge windows could frame views of native plantings. Those high ceilings could accommodate the kind of vertical gardens I can only dream about in my studio. The solid wood floors could be refinished to showcase their natural grain patterns. The whole house could become an example of how historic architecture can support modern biophilic living.
Instead, it’ll be rubble by tomorrow, replaced by something that meets current building codes but ignores everything we’ve learned about how our environments affect our wellbeing. That’s what’s really getting to me as I stand here with my cold coffee – not just losing a building, but losing all that possibility.
