Life in Pieces




If you have ever tried to pick stitches out of Georgette silk, you can imagine how I felt just over two years ago when I found out I was pregnant. I had been attempting to get out of an abusive relationship when I realized that I was not just a little bit bloated. The delicate fabric that I imagined my life to be at the time was just ripping at every stitch I removed. 
Yet, when I told my family, their only response was to give me my grandmother’s sewing machine that had been sitting in the basement for over 10 years. 


What I remember most about my grandmother is that she had a way of looking at the world in pieces. Every piece had a reason for existing, and, somehow, she knew exactly how to put those pieces together. I don’t remember when or how but she taught me everything she knew—as if this knowledge existed in my memory without me even knowing it.
She could take almost any item of clothing, trace it, and duplicate it within a few hours.

Every time I think about this, I remember a bright berry-coloured jersey fabric she had laid out. I could have sworn the fabric traced and cut itself around a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Within what felt like the blink of an eye, I had a new matching set. Some of my favourite memories as a child happened wearing her creations.


What I never had was her confidence. I always enjoyed crafting but I could never commit to what I was making. When I was gifted this sewing machine, I had no idea what to do. I saw a lot of pieces that just didn’t seem to fit together. At some point, I realized that these pieces were just going to continue piling up. So, I started picking those pieces out of the pile and I made myself a dress. I made myself t-shirts and joggers. I made throw pillows for my couch. 


I kept spitting out small creations while I was trying to imagine how the pieces of my world were going to create something good for my son.


When I finally gave birth, I was still trying to imagine this “good” that I wanted to create when it hit me: I had been doing it all along. This sudden realization made me trust in my abilities, and gave life to my projects in a way that I had never experienced before. All of the projects that I had thought of doing and never started were really within my grasp. But, what I love most about finding the confidence to sew isn’t what I can create in my own life. It’s what I can make for other people. 


When I tell people I sew, they imagine patchwork clothing, jacquard curtains, and flowery quilts. They often tell me not to be “that” person who makes their own clothing. Being able to gift them a piece of clothing that they want to wear feels incredibly empowering. It gives me even more joy when I can make these things out of fabrics from old clothes or sheets. Cutting into something that someone thought wasn’t worth anything and giving it new life makes me feel even more invested in my craft.


The more I create, the more I discover that this is not just a useful skill I happen to have as a single mother. When I create something, it’s because I love what I’m creating as much as I love being able to create it. Sharing that experience with my son is also becoming something that is irreplaceable. He sees the joy I feel, and he becomes excited. Watching him “help” me install grommets into the waistband of a pair of shorts has reminded me that even when the stitches rip out of the most delicate fabric, there is often a way to mend it.