I became serious about sewing around two years ago. I had always been fascinated by it, but a bad experience with a sewing class in high school had prevented me from exploring that interest. Then one day, a little over two years ago, my Lover bought a pattern and some fabric for me, and told me to go to town. It was love. Next came the books, and the obsessive studying of the topic.
When I think back on it, I feel sad that I ended up spending the majority of these past two years either homeless or in alternative living arrangements where it was impossible to do anything. Instead of being able to design, study, and explore, I ended up learning about how miserable it was to be cold and hungry. In two years, I’ve made a grand total of five dresses — three of which were made before my homelessness, and one of those was never hemmed (now I don’t fit into it, and will probably never hem it). How wonderful my skill would be, if only I had been able to sew during that time!
I know, sitting around and feeling bad about the past isn’t going to improve my sewing ability — sitting around sewing will. But since I am a woman, I need to pay homage to my emotions; I don’t understand it either.
I never stopped thinking about sewing. I sketched design ideas as they came to me, and mentally put together dozens of garments. My control of the machine seems to have improved even without the practice, and months of denial have tempered me into using as much care as I can in order to prevent delays caused by mistakes. I learned as much as I could with my limited resources.
Now that the past is in the past, it’s time for me to move on and learn through doing. I just need to come to accept the events that happened, instead of letting them sadden me like this. My life is far from over, and there is plenty of time to improve.