What Detroit Taught Me About Not Throwing Yourself Away

Recently, Dr. Erica and I had a whirlwind trip to her hometown of Detroit (well, she actually calls herself "a girl from Detroit-adjacent," but its close enough) to both celebrate her birthday a bit late, and also to give a talk on mental health.

There’s something about Detroit that doesn’t let you stay shallow. You feel it in the buildings. You feel it in the streets. You feel it in what’s still standing, even after everything that tried to take it down.

We stayed in an old mansion converted into a boutique hotel, right across from the Detroit Historical Museum and the Detroit Institute of Arts.

You can tell parts of the city are fighting their way back.

But we also drove through areas that looked like they’d been left behind.

Old factories.Brick buildings with broken windows.Places that, at first glance, feel like they’ve already had their last chapter.

But then you look closer.

Some of those same buildings are being restored.Not erased. Not demolished. Restored.

The bones are still good.The story still matters.

And somewhere between those blocks, it hit me: We are so quick to treat ourselves like those buildings before restoration.

We see the damage. We see the wear. We see the parts that didn’t turn out the way we thought they would.

And instead of asking, “What’s still here?” We jump straight to, “Should I just tear this down and start over?”

Detroit doesn’t let you believe that for long.

It’s the Motor City. The legacy of the “Big Three” is everywhere. And now that the snow is clearing, some of the classic cars are back out.

Not pristine. Not polished.

Real.

Scratches. Faded paint. Worn interiors.

And no one looks at those cars and calls them worthless. They call them worth saving.

Why?

Because of what they’ve been through.Because of what they still are underneath it all.

No one expects a 50-year-old car to look untouched.They expect it to be restored with care. Somehow, we don’t extend that same grace to ourselves.

In my office, I sit with people every day who carry some version of this belief: “I’m too far gone.”“I’ve made too many mistakes.”“I should be further along by now.”

And I understand it.

When all you can see is the damage, that story makes sense.

But Detroit reminded me of something I wish more people understood: Preservation is not denial.

It’s not pretending the past didn’t happen. It’s choosing to honor it without letting it have the final word.

Restoration doesn’t mean going back.

It means moving forward with intention, using what’s still solid.

We don’t need to bulldoze ourselves every time life doesn’t go the way we planned.

We need to slow down long enough to ask: "What in me is still standing? What in me is still worth building on? What in me has survived things I never thought I’d get through?"

Because that’s where the work begins.

Not in perfection. In preservation.