We hung the first door late in the day, when the shop was quiet again. Fresh paint, still curing. New hinges. New seals. Parts laid out all over the shop, the way they had been for months. When the door finally swung into place and closed the way it was supposed to, I stepped back and felt it in my chest. Eight months of work condensed into a single, solid click. My old Defender was starting to look like a vehicle again. 

Not a project. Not a problem. Something whole.

I did not tear up because it was pretty. I teared up because I knew how much work had come before that click.

I have wanted a Land Rover Defender since I was a teenager. Not because of its lack of horsepower or British nostalgia, but because of what it represented first to me. Independence. Adventure. A life that left room for curiosity. I remembered seeing a photo years ago of two people sitting in the back of a vehicle, the doors open, a rug on the ground, socks on their feet, a wide landscape stretching out ahead of them. Framed by those unmistakable rear corner windows, it looked simple and self-directed. Later, I learned those windows were the quarterlights of a Defender. That image stayed with me.

It took nearly twenty years to make it real.

At thirty-five, I finally found one. A 2002 Land Rover Defender 110, imported from South Africa. It was in Victoria, and it was for sale for a reason. It looked good from a distance and told the truth up close. Missing rivets. Body filler where there should have been rear cappings. I bought it anyway. I drove it daily for three years, fully aware it was hiding things I was not yet ready to face yet.

Eventually, the car forced the conversation.

A tail light stopped working. That sent me chasing wires. The wires led to rotten footwells. The footwells led to the bulkhead. Then the A and B pillars. Piece by piece, the Defender made it clear this was not going to be a small repair. It was going to be a reckoning. I pulled it off the road, knowing there was no turning back.

The years leading up to that moment had already done their own damage. Entrepreneurship has a way of testing your nervous system. Personal relationships are stretched thin. I needed something physical. Something honest. Something that responded directly to effort. I needed work that did not live in my head.

This car became that work.

I come from a family of builders. My dad is a builder. My brother is a builder. I know my way around a job site. I am comfortable with saws, wood, and problem solving. Cars were different. I did not grow up around them. I doubted myself constantly at the beginning.

The grinder was the hardest tool to get comfortable with. Some days, I trusted it. Other days, I avoided it completely. Once, after a long day of using the tool, my sweater caught the spinning disc and snapped me back into my body fast. Respect the tool. Pay attention. Confidence does not arrive through thinking. It arrives through repetition and at times mistakes.

This project humbled me in the best way. I entered it without ego. I asked basic questions. I listened. I learned the language because I had to, not because I was trying to prove anything. Being a woman in an auto parts store was noticeable at times, but it was never the point. I was there to fix the car.

I did not do this alone.

When welding became unavoidable, my brother called an old friend. Tristan, one of the founders of Beacon Brewing in Sidney, trained in automotive restoration in the United States; before entrepreneurship pulled him in another direction. He showed up, looked at the Defender, and said we could fix it. More importantly, he said I would be the one doing most of it. One day, Tristan showed up a little tired and quiet. I felt much the same. After some cutting, welding, and refitting he admitted he needed the project that day. A place to put his hands so his mind could float through the rollercoaster of business ownership. That day he thanked me for having a project he could step into. It became clear that restoring old cars offers something rare. A way out of your head and back to yourself.

He taught instead of taking over. He showed me what to cut out, how to break spot welds, and how to put them back properly. He answered the same questions more than once. He stepped in when experience mattered and time was tight. He walked me through body work and paint, without rushing the process. That kind of support changes what you believe you are capable of.

There was more help than I like to admit. Shop space from my brother. A borrowed barn for painting. Local welders. Friends and family who loaned me their cars because this Defender is my daily driver. People checked in because they knew this project mattered, even before I fully understood why.

The body work was the hardest part. It took hours. Long days stripping old paint and filler. Discovering rushed repairs and hidden damage. It pulled me away from my regular work and forced me to face my own limits. I had to learn grace. I am one person, trying to do the work of many.

Learning how to use just enough filler to correct problems without erasing the Defender’s character felt less like fabrication and more like uncovering a story that had been buried.

The colour came last. Keswick Green with an Arctic White roof. A heritage Land Rover combination. It feels like nature's mood ring. It shifts constantly with the coastal BC sky. Some days it leans green and other days it deepens to a steel blue.

When the paint was done, and we started putting the truck back together, the exhaustion hit. Somewhere in that shift from taking things apart to tightening bolts again, from stripping to reassembly, the energy changed. That is when the first door went on. That is when I let myself feel my emotions.

This project humbled me in the best way. It did not teach me patience. I already had that. It taught me about trust. Trusting my hands. Trusting that asking for help does not make the work less mine. Trusting that hard things can move you forward if you stay with them.

I am writing this before the first drive. I know I will cry when it happens. Not because the build is finished. It never will be. Defenders are ongoing relationships.

Next comes the interior. A rooftop tent. Long drives. Shared trips with my kids, my nieces, and the people I love. Conversations. Ideas. A life built around movement again.

Restoration and real adventure skills are becoming rare. They should not be. The more approachable we make these spaces, the more people will step into them. Not to prove anything, but to build something real and give themselves space to heal through the action of restoring something with our hands.

This project reminded me that I do not need to earn joy. I just need to follow it.

The Defender and I will be back on the road together soon. Say hi if you see us out there or follow the Defender's journey on Instagram.