The Chairs I Carried: Restoring What Was Lost, Reclaiming What Still Remains

Today, I didn’t record the podcast. I didn’t sit behind a mic and speak the words of healing out loud. Instead, I healed in silence. With my hands. With sweat. With distance. I walked six miles in total, back and forth, on aching feet—to pick up turning polish and wax to restore two old chairs.

They were tired. Leather seats cracked with age, frames worn from time. But something in me saw potential. Not just beauty. Not just function. Value. I didn’t just see chairs—I saw parts of myself.

These chairs were picked up secondhand. Nothing fancy. But I knew what I could do with them. I stripped the old seats, sanded down the legs and arms, wiped them clean of stories they no longer needed to carry. Then I upholstered them with sheepskin. White to cream. Soft. Strong. New. Still vintage, but refreshed. More me.

They now sit proudly at my drop-leaf G-Plan table. Next to a Monstera plant. A room diffuser. A tray holding the small details of my becoming. It smells of eucalyptus and candlelight. It smells like healing.

The wall above is still bare. No mirror. No artwork. Not yet. But maybe this emptiness isn’t lack. Maybe it's space. Space to breathe. To imagine. To grow into. The room doesn’t have a sofa yet. And that’s okay. Maybe this season isn’t for lounging, but for rising.

I carried those chairs. Literally. I restored them with my own two hands. And somewhere in between the sanding and the stapling, the long walk home and the drying polish, I realized: I am restoring myself too.

This is what new beginnings look like. They aren’t always neat. Or fast. They often don’t come with comfort or cushions. But they are mine. Earned. Felt. Fought for. And slowly, lovingly, built.

If you’re in a season where everything feels undone, incomplete, uncertain—keep going. Hang your curtains. Lay your hands on what still remains. Rebuild from the pieces. Reimagine from the pain. And most of all, restore what still carries value.

Because just like those chairs—you were never broken. Just waiting to be reclaimed.