I kept putting off refinishing my front door, because I knew it wouldn’t be a simple project: sand, prime, paint, done. I put it off long after that pink paint, once perfectly suited to my “doll’s house,” no longer spoke the truth of my reclaimed self.
Part of me was waiting for the right new color to appear, one that reflected who I had become and the kind of welcome I wanted to extend. I also knew I’d have to wait for the right weather; being doorless for a few days is no small thing.
Then one day, while mixing paint for a canvas, voilà, the perfect red appeared. Instantly I knew it was my new door color. I made a swatch, hiked down to my local Ace Hardware, and asked if they could match it in a satin enamel. Back home, I painted large test swatches and taped them to my front and back doors, running in and out of the house throughout the day to see how the color shifted in sunlight and shadow. It couldn’t be too pink or too orange; it had to be that perfectly delicious heirloom-tomato red, rich and alive no matter the light.
My goal was to reclaim this beautifully crafted hardwood door and restore it, and its Art Deco hardware, to their original grandeur.
I started by taping off the brass hardware and got to work. The first pass of the sander revealed how deep the layers went. Beneath each coat of color was another season of the house’s history: weather, time, neglect, someone else’s idea of beauty. Every pass uncovered something older and rougher, and in that rawness, I recognized myself.
To restore anything, we must first practice radical honesty by looking at the things we normally avoid. That’s the part most people skip. We want renewal without revelation. But the surface doesn’t hold if you paint over deception. The house knows, the body knows, the soul knows. The truth will blister through eventually.
So I kept scraping and sanding. I kept listening. The sound of metal against wood became a kind of confession. The door didn’t apologize for its damage; it simply revealed it. And the more I stayed with it, the more beautiful it became—not because it was flawless, but because it was honest.
Radical honesty isn’t self-annihilation. It’s reverence. It says, “You are still worthy of care.”
Revealing the raw wood and the original millwork became a kind of forensic quest. My DNA joined with the many comings and goings of past births and deaths and all the life in between, and became one with the life of the tree that birthed this door.
Lovingly, I filled cracks and dents and sanded them smooth, then turned my attention to the beautiful brass hardware: the vintage doorbell, the handle and lock, even the hinges. Because, you see, even the parts that are hidden are deserving of restoration. It’s often those hidden parts that have carried the heaviest loads and done the most work across time.
When I finally brushed the red paint across the wood, it wasn’t a concealment of what was. It was a benediction. The color felt alive, protective, and almost pulsing with gratitude for a chance to be the harbinger of welcome for all who will enter — the living, the creation of new stories, new laughter, and the gentle making of history within these walls.
Standing there in the quiet, I realized this is what reclamation really is: facing the truth without flinching, and then working with what’s been uncovered.
I felt the bravery of it, and vowed to make that my mantra for life. Engaging with the truth, without minimizing, is some of the most courageous personal and artistic work we can do in our lifetimes.
That is my mantra.
Revealing what’s true.
Restoring what remains, one layer, one brushstroke, one miracle at a time.
◉ If something in this resonates — if you’re ready for a little color therapy, come explore my high-chroma work.