The Art of Restoration: What Upholstery Taught Me About Therapy

Did I ever tell you how much I love traditional crafts like sewing and upholstery? Love might even be an understatement. I loved them so much that, in my spare time, I went to college just to learn how to do them properly. There's something about threading a needle, feeling fabric under your fingertips, coaxing it into place; it's meditative, grounding and really satisfying.

And then there was this chair.

A battered 1960s Parker Knoll I stumbled across on Facebook Marketplace, listed under "free to good home" with the kind of photos that made you wonder if anyone would actually want it. The fabric was faded beyond recognition, springs poking through like arthritic fingers, and one arm was more duct tape than upholstery. The seller's description was brutally honest: "Seen better days. Probably only good for parts."

But I could see past all that.

I could see the beautiful oak frame underneath. The solid construction that had weathered decades. The elegant lines that just needed... restoring.

Looking Beyond the Surface

There's something about working with your hands that teaches you to see potential where others see problems. When you're stripping back layers of old fabric, you're not just removing material, you're uncovering a story.

Sometimes you find surprises. Newspaper stuffing from 1962. A child's lost toy wedged in the springs. Evidence of repairs done with love, even if they weren't quite professional. Each layer tells you something about the life this piece has lived.

And it’s not so different from what happens in therapy.

The Assessment

When someone sits in my therapy room for the first time, they often arrive a bit like that Parker Knoll chair. Worn down. Carrying the weight of years. Maybe held together by coping mechanisms that worked once but aren't quite fit for purpose anymore.

"I'm probably beyond help," they'll say. Or, "I don't even know where to start."

But I'm looking at the structure underneath. The resilience that got them through everything that brought them here. The strength that's still there, even if it's buried under layers of anxiety, trauma or old beliefs that stopped serving them years ago.

Just like with furniture restoration, the first step isn't diving in with tools blazing. It's assessment.

What are we working with here? What's solid? What needs support? What can be saved and what needs to be completely rebuilt?

Stripping Back the Layers

In upholstery, you work backwards. Carefully removing each layer, photographing as you go so you remember how it all fits together. You're not destroying, you're revealing.

Therapy works the same way.

We don't bulldoze through someone's coping mechanisms or dismiss the patterns that have kept them functioning. Even if those patterns are causing problems now, they were probably brilliant solutions at some point.

That hypervigilance? It kept you safe when safety wasn't guaranteed.

That people pleasing? It secured attachment when love felt conditional.

That perfectionism? It protected you from criticism when criticism felt dangerous.

These aren't character flaws to be ashamed of. They're evidence of a mind that learned to adapt, to survive, to find ways through. But just like old upholstery, sometimes what protected us in the past starts to restrict us in the present.

The Delicate Work

Here's what they don't tell you about furniture restoration, you can't rush the process. Try to rip off old fabric too quickly and you might damage the frame underneath. Skip steps and the whole thing falls apart.

Each layer has to be respected, understood and gently removed.

Some days you make visible progress. Other days you're dealing with stubborn staples that just won't budge or discovering damage that's worse than you initially thought. And some days, honestly, you wonder if you should have just bought a new chair from IKEA instead.

Therapy has the same rhythm.

Carrie and the Stubborn Staples

Carrie came to see me after years of what she called "failed therapy attempts." She'd tried talking therapies, counselling, self-help books; all the standard approaches.

"I must be one of those people who can't be fixed," she told me. "I understand my problems. I know where they come from. But nothing changes."

She was like a chair where previous restorers had used industrial strength staples instead of the gentle tacking that belonged there. All that force, all that trying to make change happen through will and logic alone, had actually made the original fabric harder to remove.

We had to work differently. More gently.

Using IEMT and Hypnotherapy, we weren't trying to rip out old patterns. We were carefully, softly helping her nervous system release what it had been holding onto for decades. The change didn't look dramatic from the outside. But inside? She was finally free to become who she'd always been underneath all those protective layers.

The Hidden Structure

One of my favourite moments in any restoration project is when you finally see the frame clearly. No padding, no fabric, no distractions. Just the essential structure that's been supporting everything else.

And almost always, it's more beautiful than you expected.

That solid oak. Those elegant joints. The craftsmanship that's lasted decades precisely because it was built to endure.

In therapy, we have these moments too.

When someone stops apologising for taking up space and you see their natural confidence.

When the anxiety lifts and their curiosity emerges.

When they stop trying to be who they think they should be and remember who they actually are.

That essential self was always there. It just got covered up along the way.

The Rebuilding

When you're rebuilding a piece, you don't just copy what was there before. You use better materials. More supportive padding. Fabric that's more durable, more suited to how the piece will actually be used.

You keep the beautiful frame, but you update everything else.

This is what happens in really good therapy.

We're not trying to go back to who you were before life got complicated. We're building on that solid foundation but with better tools, healthier boundaries, more supportive beliefs.

Your resilience is still there. Your sensitivity, your creativity, your particular way of seeing the world; all of that stays. But now it's supported by nervous system regulation instead of chronic anxiety. Self-compassion instead of harsh self-criticism. Authentic connection instead of people-pleasing.

The Finishing Touches

The final stage of any restoration is the most satisfying.

Choosing fabric that honours the original design while making it work for modern life. Adding details that make it uniquely yours while respecting what came before. Standing back and seeing not just a restored piece of furniture, but something that's ready for the next chapter of its life.

In therapy, this looks like someone walking into a social situation without rehearsing their exit strategy. Applying for the job they actually want instead of the one they think they can handle. Setting a boundary without three days of emotional preparation.

Speaking up in meetings. Dating without panic. Sleeping through the night.

Living like someone who knows they belong here.

Both Are Acts of Faith

Whether it's a chair or a person, restoration is fundamentally an act of faith.

Faith that what looks broken can be beautiful again.

Faith that what's been damaged isn't beyond repair.

Faith that with the right tools, enough patience and genuine care, almost anything can be brought back to life.

The work isn't about stripping away who you are. It's about uncovering the frame that was always there and enhancing it so it becomes stronger, more supportive, and more beautiful than it's ever been.

Just like you.