The Things We Choose To Save

The difference between worn out and finished is often perspective.

Some projects begin with a trip to the craft store or a carefully planned design board.

This wasn't one of those projects.

A few years ago, during a Zoom meeting at Wix, one of my coworkers, Allie, asked if I would be interested in taking a chair off her hands. She loved the chair, but after years of use—and years of attention from a determined cat—it had seen better days. The fabric was shredded, stained, and worn beyond saving. She was preparing to move and didn't want to take it with her.

But she also couldn't bring herself to throw it away.

She told me she thought of me because everyone at work knew how much I loved restoring furniture, reupholstering pieces, and giving old things a second life.

The moment she held it up to the camera, I said yes.

A few days later, she dropped it off at my apartment.

The chair sat in my living room for approximately fifteen minutes before I had a plan.

The original fabric had to go. I immediately envisioned soft cream faux leather paired with darker stained wood to highlight the chair's beautiful curved shape. The bones were still good. It just needed someone willing to see past the years of wear.

What I didn't realize was that this project would push me further than any upholstery project I'd tackled before.

Most of the furniture I'd restored up to that point involved simple cushions and straight seams. This chair was different. The upholstery wrapped tightly around curved surfaces and required custom-fitted covers with stitching precise enough to stretch over the frame without sagging or bunching.

I carefully removed the legs and disassembled the chair piece by piece. To my relief, the upper section was attached with staples rather than a zipper. While pulling out hundreds of staples isn't exactly glamorous work, it meant I could use the original fabric as a pattern for the new upholstery.

Once everything was apart, I stained the wood a richer, darker brown and used the old fabric pieces as templates for the new faux leather.

Then came the moment of truth.

Because faux leather has far less give than traditional upholstery fabric, I wasn't entirely convinced the finished pieces would fit. After hours of measuring, cutting, and sewing, I found myself holding my breath as I stretched the new covers into place.

Somehow, they fit.

Not perfectly, not effortlessly—but with just enough stretch and a little patience, everything came together exactly as I'd imagined.

After reassembling the chair, tightening every screw, and stepping back to admire the finished piece, I knew it had become one of my favorite furniture projects I'd ever completed.

When I showed my mom, she immediately wanted it for herself.

I considered selling it.

I considered gifting it.

I even offered it back to Allie.

But much like Allie before me, I'd fallen in love with it.

And that's the funny thing about restoration projects. Sometimes you start because you're trying to save an object. Somewhere along the way, the object ends up changing you instead.

This chair reminded me that creativity isn't always about making something new.

Sometimes it's about seeing potential where someone else sees damage.

Sometimes it's about honoring the story of a piece while helping it become something more.

And sometimes it's about pulling an unreasonable number of staples out of a chair because you simply refuse to let something beautiful be thrown away.

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A Note From The Workshop:

Every piece has a story.

This chair belonged to someone who loved it enough to save it, and somehow it found its way to someone willing to rebuild it.

I think that's one of the reasons I love restoration projects so much. They're a reminder that age, wear, mistakes, and imperfections don't automatically mean something has reached the end of its usefulness.

Sometimes they're simply the beginning of the next chapter.