Before I Became a Designer, I Was a Daughter Watching one at Work
May 20, 2025
A turret? Yes. Dungeons and arched doorways? Yep. Ghost stories? Of course.
I grew up in one of the earliest homes in La Cañada, California—affectionately known as the Pink Castle (It's no longer pink). It helped shape my design style.
My dad took one look and fell hard for its Scottish charm; my mom took a double and triple look and almost fell over when she saw just how much work it needed. Fortunately for Dad, this was a challenge she couldn’t resist. When we moved in, the house was all but abandoned—sconces torn from walls, stained glass windows shattered by high school party lore. Regal, yes—but lost in time.
Every room held a secret, every creaky stair an out-of-tune piano key. But that eerie quiet didn’t last. Their brood of four kids, three dogs, and two cats was like a circus moving in. And while we set about building our own adventures on top of the ones left behind, I also watched my mom tackle a never ending list of projects and updates.
When other moms were organizing car pools and school fundraisers, mine was wrestling 12-inch-thick concrete walls, restoring faded murals, and debating the merits of rewiring knob-and-tube electrical by hand. She saw all the potential in this house of peeling paint and cracked woodwork. She didn’t try to make it something it wasn’t. She just wanted to bring it back to life, one painstaking, soulful detail at a time.
I watched her do what designers now talk about in lofty terms: preserve, restore, honor. Back then, it was just her instinct. Watching her bring each room back to life taught me an enduring truth: beauty and integrity often hide in the bones. You don’t always tear down a house because it’s old. You honor it. You add your chapter to the story.
My mother and her reverence for this house quietly shaped my design philosophy. Living in a space with such presence taught me to value history, craftsmanship, and character over trend or convenience. Every door had weight. Every window framed a story. The imperfections weren’t flaws—they were evidence of a life well lived.
It also sparked my love of architecture and history. That home was layered with past lives, whispered memories, and imperfect beauty. The creaks in the floorboards and the worn banister didn’t need fixing—they needed respecting. I realized design wasn’t just about what’s new; it’s about honoring what’s been.
That sense of stewardship still guides my work today. Whether we’re designing a new build or breathing life into an existing structure, I approach each home with reverence. We’re not just creating spaces—we’re contributing to a future history.
Perhaps the greatest lesson my mother and this house taught me? Belonging isn’t always just about the comforts and functionality of a home. Sometimes it’s about awe. It’s about being in a space that asks something of you—that pulls you in and reminds you that you’re part of something bigger.
I think of that when we begin every project: creating homes with soul, structure, and staying power. Honoring architecture, character and legacy matters. It feels a lot like tipping my hat in thanks to those who came before me and to those who continue to shape my view of beauty, belonging and home.
For further inspiration and insights, explore the full portfolio, additional interior design blogs, and learn more about Courtney Thomas and the firm’s approach to thoughtful, livable design.
