The Duncan Phyfe Tables (Or: How We Love Each Other Back to Life)

Last week, on a day when I felt particularly broken—when the veneer of "I'm fine" was wearing thin and the joints of my barely held-together life felt loose—my phone buzzed with a text from a friend I hadn't talked to in months.

She lives in the state we just moved away from. She has her own heavy “life” things to carry…like most of us. She's also, if I'm being honest, the one who reaches out more than I do. The one who remembers. The one who texts first.

Her message was casual: photos of two end tables. Duncan Phyfe style, she asked to be sure. Beautiful lines, that classic pedestal base, rich wood tone. She was asking questions—what did I think about the condition? Did I see where the veneer was lifting on one drawer? What about that one missing toe cap?

I thought they were shopping for themselves (she was with her husband) and just wanted my opinion since they knew I loved that kind of thing. We went back and forth about the details, the potential, what repairs they might need.

And then: "We're getting them for you."

I had to read it twice.

They were traveling. Out thrifting in some town they’d have to haul them home from. And when they saw these tables, they thought of me. Not just thought of me—they asked questions, examined them carefully, bought them, and are now storing them at their house until one of my family members can transport them to our new state.

I sat there staring at my phone, completely undone.

The Thing About Duncan Phyfe

Here's what you need to know about Duncan Phyfe style furniture: it was built to last. These pieces were crafted with an attention to detail and quality that meant they could survive generations. But surviving doesn't mean unmarked. These tables have water stains. Lifting veneer. Scratches. The evidence of being used, lived with, sometimes neglected, but undoubtedly loved.

They needed restoration. But underneath the wear, the bones are good. The craftsmanship is still there. They are still valuable. Still beautiful. Still worth the effort of repair.

I don't think I need to spell out the metaphor.

When You Don't Feel Worth Finding

On that particular day, I didn't feel like a Duncan Phyfe table. I felt like particle board furniture from a big box store—cheaply made, easily damaged, probably not worth saving.

The disability and neurodivergence I write about here? Some days the weight of it all makes me feel like damaged goods. Like I'm too much work. Too much need. Too many repairs required. Some days I wonder if people stay in my life out of obligation or pity rather than genuine want.

And then someone buys you furniture.

Not because you asked. Not because they owed you anything. Not even because you'd been a particularly good friend lately (see: "she reaches out more than I do"). But because they were out living their life, saw something beautiful that needed some work, and thought, "This belongs with her."

The Restoration We Do for Each Other

Here's what my friend did that day: she saw something with good bones. She saw past the surface damage to the craftsmanship underneath. She saw potential. She saw worth. And then—and this is the important part—she did something about it.

She didn't just think warm thoughts about me. She didn't just mentally note that we should catch up sometime. She put her money down. She made space in her car and her home. She took on the logistics of getting these tables to me across state lines.

She treated me like I was worth the effort of restoration.

And on a day when I couldn't see that in myself, when my own veneer was lifting and my joints felt loose, that changed everything.

The Text That Changed My Day

I think about what would have happened if she hadn't sent that text. If they'd just quietly bought the tables and surprised me later. I would have been touched, certainly. Grateful.

But I wouldn't have known, on that specific hard (nay, horrible) day, that someone was out in the world thinking of me. That someone saw beauty in something broken and thought it belonged with me. That I was loved enough to be worth the trouble.

Timing matters. The text came exactly when I needed it, even though my friend had no way of knowing that. She was just being herself—thoughtful, generous, the kind of person who reaches out first.

What We Forget When We're the Broken One

When you're in a season of feeling unlovable, you forget that people can hold space for both your brokenness and your beauty at the same time. You forget that needing restoration doesn't make you worthless—sometimes it makes you more valuable because it means you've been lived with, used, part of someone's real life.

You forget that good friends don't love you despite the water stains and lifted veneer. They love you, period. The whole piece. The craftsmanship underneath and the evidence of wear on top.

My friend didn't text me saying, "I found these damaged tables and they reminded me of you." She texted me saying, "Look at these beautiful tables I found."

She saw the beauty first. The damage was just information about what care they might need.

Be the Friend Who Buys the Tables

I've been thinking about what it means to be this kind of friend. The kind who:

• Reaches out first, again and again, without keeping score

• Sees potential in people even when they can't see it in themselves

• Does the inconvenient thing because someone is worth the inconvenience

• Texts at exactly the right moment without even knowing it was the right moment

• Treats people like Duncan Phyfe tables—valuable enough to restore, beautiful enough to keep

It requires paying attention. It requires action. It requires believing that people are worth the effort even when they're showing their scratches.

My friend has her own struggles. Her own hard days. Her own lifted veneer and water stains. But on that day, she was out living her life, and she saw something that made her think of me, and she didn't let the logistics or the cost or the inconvenience stop her from doing something about it.

The Challenge (A Kind One)

So, here's what I want to ask you (and myself, obviously), gently:

Who in your life might need to know they're someone's Duncan Phyfe table right now? Who might be feeling like damaged particle board when really they're a carefully crafted piece that's just been through some things?

Maybe you text them. Maybe you do the inconvenient thing. Maybe you just look at them and see the craftsmanship first, before you catalog the repairs they might need.

And if you're the one feeling broken today—if you're the one with the water stains and the lifting veneer—maybe you let yourself remember: You were built to last. The bones are good. You are worth the effort of restoration. Someone out there sees your beauty first.

Maybe they're out shopping for you right now, and you don't even know it yet.

P.S. — The tables aren't here yet. They're sitting in my friend's house in a state I no longer live in, waiting for logistics to work out. But I already love them. Not because they're perfect, but because of what they represent: the way we love each other back to life, one thoughtful gesture at a time. The way being seen—really seen—can restore something in us that we didn't even know was broken.

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About the Author
Gal is an autistic artist, late-diagnosed at 49, and the creator of AuRTistic Expressions—a space where neurodivergent truth meets creative survival. Through books, blog posts, printables, and coaching, Gal explores what it means to unmask safely, communicate authentically, and make art that doesn’t ask for permission. Stick around—there’s plenty more where this came from.

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