The Hidden Strength of Heritage
Why Old Buildings Still Matter
In a world that constantly chases the new, heritage buildings quietly remind us of who we are.
They are more than brick and stone—more than style or ornament. They are memory made visible, bearing witness to the stories that shaped our streets, our families, and our shared identity.
But while preservation is vital, so is evolution. Heritage buildings—and the neighborhoods around them—must be allowed to change. Without thoughtful reinvention, these sites face slow erasure. Not through demolition, but through decay. If we resist all change, we risk losing these places altogether—watching them quietly rot from disuse.
Whenever I find myself in conversations about heritage, I think of my time in Italy. My wife and I eloped to Florence and were married in the Medici Palace. Once the home of the most powerful family in Europe, it now serves as both a museum and a city hall. Our wedding ceremony took place in what was originally the bedroom of Bia de’ Medici. That building—like so many in Italy—has survived by adapting. The city and buildings have evolved, like a healthy organism, to meet the needs of changing times. On a recent visit last spring, I was surprised and excited to see so much construction happening. Renovating/maintaining and evolving. As a result, of all the intelligent and thoughtful change overs thousands of years, the city is still alive. Still meaningful and these buildings are still a part of the city's daily life.
Photo above: Lucy in front of the Medici Palace, City Hall and Museum
Currently, my office is facing a challenge of helping the United Memorial Church, evolve and stay alive. Recently named one of the top 10 most endangered heritage properties in Canada. Built to honor those lost in the Halifax Explosion, the church holds deep emotional and historical value for the city.
But saving it isn’t simple.
The financial viability of the project requires a minimum number of residential units—enough to justify a 12-storey building, located at the rear of the church. It’s a straightforward, but difficult, equation: without that height, the risk is too great, and the project simply doesn’t work. Walking away would be easier—and a few developers already have.
Our approach has been to thread a very fine needle: integrating residential units not just beside the church, but within it. A section of the new tower even spans over the original church roof, preserving the historic façade as a central visual anchor. It’s a complex architectural and financial challenge—one that tries to balance economic feasibility with deep respect for heritage.
Many developers avoid projects like this. They’re high risk. The margins are tight. And when public opposition arises—about building height, scale, materials, or form—the project becomes even more fragile. Delays drive up costs. Reducing height or unit count can undermine the financial foundation entirely. And once that happens, the entire vision unravels and demolition is the only way forward.
But I believe having conversations with community about projects like this are worth having. Because when communities better understand the challenges of adaptive reuse, there’s a greater chance for shared ownership and collective support. That kind of understanding is critical—because once these buildings are gone, they’re gone for good.
Heritage buildings are not just relics of the past. They’re anchors for the future. They give our communities context, character, and continuity in a world that too often feels disposable. That doesn’t mean they should remain frozen in time—but they do need to remain part of our time.
In the end, it’s not just about what we build. It’s about what we choose to keep—and why.
