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Restoring a Family Heirloom Dresser with Botanical Wallpaper: Memory, Meaning & Biophilic Design

The Objects That Stay With Us

One of the most meaningful creative projects I’ve ever worked on didn’t start as a product or a portfolio piece. It started as a small wooden dresser that’s been in my family for generations.

My grandmother had five daughters. Somewhere along the way, this dresser moved with her, and later ended up with my mom. When my oldest daughter was born, my mom passed the dresser down to me. It fit perfectly in her nursery—like it was made to hold her tiny clothes and baby socks. I used it for each of my daughters.

When my daughters outgrew it, I couldn’t let it go. The drawers were lined with wrapping from my baby shower gifts—little bags and papers from friends I love—so every time I opened them, it felt like opening a memory box. It wasn’t especially beautiful, and parts of it were chipped and worn, but it held so much meaning.

I knew I wanted to keep it. More than that, I wanted it to live on as a family piece—something that carried its story forward, even for people who might not immediately see the beauty in something worn and imperfect.

Bringing the Piece Back to Life

My husband, Steven, and I decided to restore it together, and in many ways, the process felt less like starting over and more like paying closer attention to what was already there.

He sanded it down, repaired a broken corner, and brought the wood back to life. From there, I started thinking about how the piece could evolve without losing what made it meaningful.

I chose a deep green paint for the drawers—pulled from the wallpaper I had designed, which holds a range of layered greens inspired by natural foliage. I wanted a tone that would sit comfortably within that palette while still working alongside the original wood that we were keeping.

I picked out the most beautiful brass cicada drawer pulls after a long search on Etsy for something that felt both functional and aligned with the natural direction I was taking. They reminded me of a moment from our backyard wedding, when we were married under a willow tree. The tree was adorned with cicada skins, remnants of their recent emergence. It felt subtle, but personal.

None of the decisions felt separate from one another. Each one built on the last, guided more by feeling than by any fixed plan. What it became genuinely surprised me.

Now, I bring it along to markets and people want to open the drawers, touch it, ask questions. There’s something about it that just draws you in and invites you to hear its story. I think part of that is because it feels layered in a way people don’t expect. It’s functional, but it also carries something quieter and more natural.

It currently lives in my studio, holding some of my favorite small paintings and tools. It became a functional piece layered with history, collaboration, and care.

It’s not something I make money from. But it’s something I’ve made meaning from. And my hope is that the wallpaper, textiles, and patterns I create can do the same for others—becoming part of something bigger, something lived with, something that carries forward.

The Story in the Details

What made this piece come together wasn’t just the restoration. It was the layering of small, intentional choices.

The green of the drawers, the brass cicada pulls, the wallpaper tucked along the sides—each element was chosen to support the piece, not overpower it. None of it was about making something new. It was about paying attention to what already existed, and building around it in a way that felt aligned.

For instance, the wallpaper we used wasn’t chosen to transform it into something unrecognizable. It was chosen to hold what was already there and highlight the impact something so small can have on a space.

Over time, I’ve realized that this is often how I approach design more broadly. A lot of it feels intuitive in the moment, but underneath that intuition is a quiet awareness of how something will live in a space, and how it will shape the way that space feels.

I tend to return to patterns that feel more organic than structured, work that moves a little, breathes a little, and settles into a space rather than sitting on top of it—much like you may feel in the natural world. On the dresser, the pattern doesn’t announce itself. It supports the story. It sits alongside the chipped wood, the repaired corners, the painted drawers, and the marks left by time, becoming part of a larger, living object rather than the focal point. In fact, you’d miss it if you were only looking straight on. It lines the sides—something you discover rather than something that demands attention.

That’s often how I hope my work shows up in people’s homes too. Not as something precious or untouchable, but as something that can live alongside real life, evolving as the space and the people in it evolve.

This wallpaper is available in my shop, and while it works beautifully in full rooms, I especially love it in smaller, more intimate applications—lining furniture, sitting neatly inside crown molding, wrapping unexpected surfaces, or becoming part of something already loved.

My patterns pull together natural elements, materials, and forms into built spaces to hopefully reconnect people with nature. There is an entire movement, labeled biophilic design, that has quickly gaining traction within the interior design world. It aims to improve health, reduce stress, and increase cognitive function by fostering an innate human connection to the natural world.

Restoring my grandmother’s dresser didn’t turn it into something new. If anything, it just brought me closer to what was already there. It still carries everything it always did; it just holds it a little differently now.

And I think that’s part of what I come back to in my work, again and again. Not the idea of replacing or refining something until it feels finished, but the quieter process of noticing what’s already meaningful and allowing it to keep unfolding.