My name is Grace, and my love for saving old relics began long before I had the words for “preservation.”
Growing up in a small Texas town, I spent my childhood exploring abandoned buildings — forgotten farmhouses, sun-faded rooms, and quiet corners that still held the stories of the people who once lived inside them. Even then, I felt called to protect the places time tried to leave behind.

That early curiosity grew into a true calling in my early twenties when I married a man willing to take on the adventure of restoration with me. Together, we were given the chance to property-manage and care for a 1915 farmhouse in Prosper, Texas — once an original pig farm, later a collapsed and overrun party house with trees pushing through the roof.

But beneath all the damage, she was extraordinary.

We spent months bringing her back to life.
We repaired her bones.
We revived her warmth.
We restored her golden pine milled floors — floors so old that when sections needed replacing, it took six months to find a tree aged enough to mill matching boards.

She was sturdy, historic, one of the last of her kind — and though we didn’t own her, the owner promised us first right of refusal if she were ever sold.

We believed she had a future.

But without warning, and without a single phone call, she was sold to developers and demolished. We learned about the sale a day too late, arriving just in time to see the newel post of her once-beautiful staircase rising out of the rubble.

I didn’t cry for the work we put in.
I cried because a piece of Texas history had been erased — and the generations to come would never know she stood there at all.

In that moment, I made a promise:
I will not let history disappear without a fight ever again.