How Sewing Saved My Life

March 16th, 2020. My life was a mess.

My business had gone up in flames. I'd lost my home, my job, a lot of money and had moved in with my boyfriend and his parents in Cornwall. I was 25, having to make some great people redundant and dealing with lawyers, liquidators and the reality of unemployment. But worst of all was the heart-pounding, stomach-churning knowledge that I had failed on an epic scale.

I was not okay. I've never been an anxious or depressed person, even in the face of immense challenges, but this had well and truly knocked the air from my lungs and the zest for life from my soul. My days were spent thinking through fog, shame-spiralling about how directionless I was and how everyone knew about my failure and were probably enjoying it (definitely irrational, but definitely what I thought). I was in a constant state of fight or flight and would sob uncontrollably over the smallest thought about any of it.

Things desperately needed to change.

Then, March 16th came and suddenly we were all trapped inside together. With a seemingly unending amount of time before me, books, video games and television soon became stale. I was aimless and felt incredibly guilty for doing nothing, but the more guilt I felt, the less motivation I had to do anything.

Boredom and guilt continued in this endless cycle, until one night creativity finally reared its head - my old friend that had been missing for so long. For me, creativity and the desire to craft is like a current running under my skin, flowing in my veins. It can be tentative at first - a small, tingling hint - but can also hit me like a jolting wave of inspiration.

One night, we stood outside as a family, clapping for the NHS and the front-line heroes who were out there, saving our lives, protecting us from harm, keeping the world turning. It felt like such a small thing - a tiny flash of light in the face of a gargantuan black hole - clapping for people who were risking it all for us, for the people I loved, for me. But there we stood, cheering into the night.

I felt the jolt right there and then, in the dark, surrounded by family. That familiar feeling of creativity had come to call at last. The parallels of my life in that moment reminded me so much of an old Cornish tale about Stargazey Pie, I immediately knew I needed to create something to commemorate this moment. I sketched a design on my iPad and pondered how to begin.

The story of Stargazey Pie is steeped in Cornish history and folklore, specifically the picturesque fishing village of Mousehole. Tom Bawcock, a fisherman in the 16th century, saved his village from starvation.

Legend has it that a fearsome winter storm hit the village, and the residents were cut off from other nearby towns and villages for weeks. Food was dwindling as rapidly as the starving villagers' hope for survival. Tom bravely risked his life by taking his tiny fishing boat out to sea in the raging storm. His courage was rewarded with a bountiful catch of fish. He saved his village that day and to celebrate, the villagers baked a huge fish pie; the heads sticking proudly out of the crust to show off the prized catch. It’s traditionally served on 23rd December, the day Tom saved their lives and the Christmas holiday.

Bawcock’s bravery immediately made me think of the key workers who we stood there clapping for.

But how to commemorate this? I wanted to step away from old habits, old creativity and old practices. I wanted to make something completely new. Previously, my work had always been about instant gratification. Speedy free motion textiles pieces, abstract paintings, digital art. I liked seeing immediately if something was going to be good, and if I should keep going.

The pandemic made me slow down and try to still the busy thoughts swirling through my head, the racing heartbeat I hadn't been able to shake for months. Armed with nothing more than a box of beads, a pair of scissors, and my trusty sewing kit, I sat down and began creating for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

I sewed each bead down, one at a time, row after row, hour after hour, day after day. A kind of rhythm formed, a zen I hadn't felt for years. I was okay, I was safe, I was creating... and it was it glorious.

I began to feel like myself again, and other things came back to me too. I went for walks at dawn to hear the birds, I gathered herbs and baked, I looked after my skin, I stopped thinking that my life was a disaster and I began to care about my happiness. Each bead, each row and each line started to feel like an achievement. With a final knot and snip, I would look down proudly as each element of my Stargazey Pie grew before my eyes.

If I had a bad day, I would make small things like stars and be kind to myself - it was okay, I didn't need to make big strides every day. I started to realise maybe my life hadn't actually been that great before. I lived alone, away from my boyfriend and family, I worked 100 hour weeks and my health was deteriorating. I felt aged and burnt out, in my mid twenties. I decided that that wasn't going to be what success looked like for me. Success was going to be spending time with the people that I loved. Enjoying my days. Making enough money to live, not living to work. Having quality social time. Making things that brought me peace and joy.

The first lockdown lifted and my freedom returned, but Stargazey pie fell by the wayside. I bought a house, renovated it from top to bottom, built the studio I had always dreamed of in my new garden, and got a part time job as a photographer. A new normal developed and I could finally begin to see the wood from the trees.

After months of hard renovation work, we finally moved in and began to unpack. I focused on making sure the house was finished and left my studio until last. As I finally began unpacking boxes in my new studio, there it was, unravelling in my arms. The piece of artwork that had rescued me from the darkness was waiting for its finishing touches.

I spent my first day in my studio, sewing in the sunshine, finishing my Stargazey Pie, the piece that brought me so much joy and tranquility a year before. I stitched the final bead down and snipped the last thread with a flourish. I stood back to see what I had made. Stargazey Pie was finally complete. It dazzled in the sunshine and made my heart warm to see it finally finished.

A week later, I collected it from my framer and took it to a local gallery. The owner hung it pride of place and we stood back together and admired it. He got goosebumps and I felt tears rising. Not of sadness, but of sheer relief and pride.

This simple craft, this slow, beautiful and laborious thing, had given me the time to grieve, heal and see a new and much healthier pathway to follow.

It will sell soon and will be off to a new home, filled with new memories, stories and everyday acts of bravery. I hope it serves its new owners well.

As I left the gallery and wondered down the sunny street - past all the delighted tourists, just happy to be on holiday and once more wondering down quaint streets - I reflected on the impact this one piece of work has had on my life's pathway.

Stargazey Pie helped me close an adventurous chapter in my life and allowed me to sort through all of the emotions the abrupt ending of that chapter left in its wake. It made me slow down and question what I wanted from my life and change course accordingly. It helped repair the heartbreak and damage my failure had left behind. But most of all, it made me realise whatever else happens in my life, no one can take away the gift and skill I possess to make something, from absolutely nothing.

Thank you creativity, my old friend, you lit the spark in me and saved my life once again.