When Everything Is Traditional, Is Anything Traditional?

A couple of weeks ago, I attended the NKBA Design Excellence Awards as a finalist in the Traditional Kitchen category. It was a wonderful evening, filled with talented designers, beautiful projects, and the opportunity to celebrate our industry. Yet as the projects appeared on screen throughout the evening, a designer friend and I found ourselves occasionally exchanging glances. Not because the work wasn’t beautiful—it was—but because we kept returning to the same question:

When everything is traditional, is anything traditional?

The projects varied enormously in their interpretation of the category. Some felt rooted in architectural tradition, while others leaned contemporary or transitional. Certain spaces incorporated modern materials, simplified detailing, and design choices that would have been considered decidedly current not all that long ago. The more I reflected on it, the more I realized that traditional design has become increasingly difficult to define.

That may not be a bad thing.

After all, our homes should evolve. We no longer live exactly as previous generations did, nor should we expect to. Kitchens work harder than ever, families require flexibility, and our homes must adapt to changing lifestyles. Yet the evening left me wondering whether traditional design is really about style at all, or whether it is something deeper.

For years, traditional design has been associated with a particular visual language: millwork, mouldings, painted cabinetry, layered interiors, antiques, architectural detailing, and references to historical styles. While I certainly appreciate those elements, I have come to realize that they are not necessarily what draws me most strongly to a project. The homes that resonate with me tend to share something less tangible. They feel connected to their architecture, their surroundings, and their history. They feel as though they belong.

The projects that stayed with me felt less like reinventions and more like continuations. A successful renovation should feel like a younger sister in the same family—different, certainly, and perhaps better suited to modern life, but still recognizably related. There should be a continuity between what came before and what exists now, a sense that the story has continued rather than begun again from scratch.

That idea of continuity has been on my mind for some time. As a volunteer with heritage home tours, I have the opportunity to walk through many older homes and observe the different ways people choose to renovate them. Some projects preserve original details with remarkable care. Others introduce dramatic change. Neither approach is inherently right or wrong, yet I often find myself asking why certain renovations feel so successful while others leave me with a lingering sense that something has been lost.

It is rarely about style; more often, it comes down to whether the renovation understands the home it is working with.

I think about original stained-glass windows, inlaid hardwood floors, millwork, room proportions, and the countless small details that give a home its identity. My own house sits on what was once a cherry orchard, a fact I learned from my 97-year-old Italian neighbour who remembers the area from decades ago. The house itself holds heritage status because it sits beside the first home built on the block. It serves as a reminder that homes do not exist in isolation. They belong to a street, a neighbourhood, and a larger story.

That may be why I struggle when character homes are treated as blank canvases. Not because I oppose change—far from it. Some of the most successful renovations I have seen involve substantial transformation. The difference is that the changes feel considered rather than arbitrary. They acknowledge what was there before while making room for what comes next.

Interestingly, I am currently working on a much more contemporary home, yet many of the same questions arise. How does the design respond to its surroundings? What should remain? What should change? How do we create something that feels connected to the home and the landscape rather than imposed upon it? Regardless of style, the projects that stay with me are rarely the ones that chase trends. They are the ones that feel connected—to their architecture, their surroundings, and the people who live there.

Perhaps that is what good design has always done.

Which brings me back to my original question.

When everything is traditional, is anything traditional?

I am not certain I have the answer. What I do know is that the homes and renovations I admire most tend to share a common thread. They respect where they are. They understand where they came from. They acknowledge the lives that will be lived there next.

In a world that often celebrates reinvention, there is something quietly reassuring about continuity—about carrying a story forward rather than beginning a completely unrelated one. These are often the conversations I find myself having with homeowners: not simply what to change, but what to keep; not just how a home should look, but how it should feel. Whether a project is traditional or contemporary matters less to me than whether it understands where it is, where it came from, and how it can evolve thoughtfully for the people who call it home.

If you’re considering a renovation and wondering how to balance character, functionality, and modern living, I’d love to continue the conversation.