Sewing saved me

I hadn't planned it but sewing saved me. It was just something I had to pick up for my new job, a job I started in October 2014, the same year I got married. Funny thing is, I don’t really remember sewing much at all until March 2017… the month I finally came to my senses and told my husband to leave. Within minutes of him walking out, the spare room transformed itself into a sewing room. Poof. Instant sanctuary. Ikea shelves would be proud.

Before that, sewing had been strictly “work stuff.” Our Head of Department ran an after-school textiles club on Wednesdays, originally for the kids, but a handful of staff joined in too. I lived for those Wednesdays. It was my one quiet evening where I could just be. No judgement. No walking on eggshells. No intimidation. My ex was off visiting his kids, and for a couple of hours I got to sit in a room with a group of people who didn’t expect anything from me other than to enjoy myself.

We started from the absolute basics: sewing in a straight line (harder than it looks when the machine has the temperament of a pensioner in a mobility scooter), pressing seams, turning corners, and troubleshooting whatever the Janome had decided to be grumpy about that day. Those machines have been around since the seventies, built the same decade as the school, but somehow they keep going. Stubborn old legends.

But that room became more than an after-school club. It became the first place I felt calm. The hum of the sewing machine was the opposite of everything I had been living with, steady, gentle, predictable. The bright fabrics practically shouted, “Pick me! Use me!” and for once, the noise wasn’t threatening. It was fun. It was colour and possibility instead of fear and tension.

And the kids… well, they loved seeing us as actual humans. Not just teachers, but people learning, laughing, unpicking our mistakes just like they did. They’d ask me what I was making or ask why my seams resemble the plan of a roller coaster yet to be built. It brought normality at a time in my life when absolutely nothing felt normal.

I had never lived alone as an adult. Not once. So there I was at 37, suddenly discovering the tiny, weirdly joyful freedoms that come with a life no longer organised around someone else’s moods, rules, or routines. There’s no handbook for that, by the way. No “Congratulations on your new independence!” starter pack. You just sort of… wing it.

The first month wasn’t nearly as difficult as I’d imagined. I just kept going. I went to work, picked up whatever dinner I fancied on the way home (a novelty in itself), then curled up with my boys, the cats, not a secret harem, in front of the TV. Honestly, I slept like it was my new part-time job. It felt like my body had hit the “finally safe” button and decided to catch up on all the sleep I’d missed over the years.

But then summer rolled in, as it always does, and suddenly I had six weeks off work. Six whole weeks of no bells, no students, no deadlines. That was when everything shifted. With time, space, and absolutely no one policing my day, I really started to learn who I was, and I threw myself straight into sewing.

I was on every sewing course going. If someone was teaching it, I was there, armed with a notebook and absolutely no self-control around fabric shops. I met new people, learned new techniques, and developed my skills so fast it felt like discovering a secret superpower I’d apparently been sitting on for years.

I tried all sorts of things: crochet, drawing, painting, and even a brief flirtation with landscape gardening. It didn’t take long to confirm that hard labour was, in fact, not my thing. I even tried online dating. I think that was the moment I realised I was officially old and the world around me had changed. A lot. That, however, is a blog for another day… unless you want to hear it?

Sewing slowly became crafting, and crafting became creating. I now work with a range of materials and genuinely enjoy a new challenge. I’m also that person who will happily say yes to whatever odd idea a friend throws my way. For me, creating has become a huge part of my life. I design, I plan, and I almost always make a prototype first—because apparently I can’t do anything the simple way.

More recently, I turned my hand to making clothes. It started out of necessity. I was a larger girl with an even larger bust, which meant buying clothes several sizes too big and then altering them just to fit properly. Once you enter the world of ‘curve’, the choice of styles shrinks dramatically, so making my own felt like a natural progression.

Naturally, I didn’t just buy a pattern and follow the instructions. Of course not. I bought a mannequin, twenty metres of black polycotton, armed myself with scissors and a pot of pins, and got to work designing from scratch.

I’ve always dressed conservatively, navy, white, black. Safe colours. Blending in. Yet the clothes I truly love are bold and unapologetic. They’re the ones I buy, hang in my wardrobe, and admire, quietly wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to wear them.

Anyway, back to making clothes.

I’ve always had to wear a bra, which ruled out low-cut or backless tops. So naturally, my first design had to be both. I had a rough idea of how to make a basic A-line dress, and that became my starting point. I made it fit the mannequin perfectly and then let the scissors take over. A cut here, a cut there… then entire sections removed altogether. What started as a dress eventually became a top.

Top number one, Version 3

The mannequin, however, was the cheapest I could find and absolutely not designed for dressmaking. The proportions were wrong, the measurements were off, and it managed to make an already difficult job even harder.

I always say buy cheap, buy twice. One day, I might actually listen to my own advice.

That first top was made three times. Three. In the end, though, I was genuinely pleased with it. So much so that the textiles lead at my school has taken them and is planning to make a display board. I won’t ever wear it myself. Even though it’s black, it’s very… outgoing. A deep V at the front and an even lower back. Bold. Brave. Absolutely not leaving the house with me inside it.

The second top was much more sensible. A high scoop neck, short capped sleeves, and a long line designed to cover my fat arse, function over fashion. This one was made in black linen, and I actually wore it out. I even added a strip of bright red satin at the sleeve as a cuff-style detail. I haven’t worn it since, but that feels beside the point.

Top number 2, version 2

Making both tops taught me an important lesson: I should probably learn to walk before I try to run. This has been the story of my life, but maybe, just maybe, it’s time to change that.

Next, I made a dress for a toddler. The pattern was easy to follow and it came together into a lovely little summer dress. I’m proud to say there’s now a tiny princess out there wearing it, looking like she’s just stepped off the catwalk.

Somewhere along the way, I realised that confidence and visibility are not the same thing — even though we’re often told they are.

Confidence, for me, is quiet. It’s knowing I can do something. It’s competence, skill, and certainty. Visibility, on the other hand, feels loud. It’s being noticed. Seen. Judged. It’s standing out when you’ve spent most of your adult life perfecting the art of blending in.

I can make bold clothes. I can design them, cut them, and construct them from scratch. I can even admire them hanging in my wardrobe. But wearing them is different. Wearing them feels like stepping into the spotlight without a script.

For years, my clothes have acted as a kind of camouflage. Navy, black, white — safe colours that let me exist without drawing attention. I was comfortable there. Confident, even. What I wasn’t doing was allowing myself to be visible.

Sewing has changed that, slowly. Not by pushing me to wear things I’m not ready for, but by giving me control. When I make something myself, I know every seam, every choice, every compromise. That knowledge builds confidence. Visibility can wait.

Maybe one day I’ll wear the bold pieces I make. Or maybe I won’t. And that’s okay. Because confidence doesn’t need an audience — and being visible should always be a choice, not a requirement.

Healing, I’ve learned, isn’t about becoming louder or braver or more visible. It’s about choice.

For a long time, being seen felt unsafe. My body, my health, my limits, all things that seemed to invite opinions I hadn’t asked for. Advice I didn’t want. Judgement disguised as concern. So, I learned to protect myself by shrinking a little. Blending in. Staying quiet. It wasn’t weakness; it was self-preservation.

Sewing gave me back control in a way I didn’t expect. When I create, I decide the pace. I decide the outcome. I decide whether something is shared, worn, gifted, displayed… or kept just for me. That choice is healing.

Some days, healing looks like making something bold and unapologetic. Other days, it looks like staying in the background, wrapped in familiar colours, protecting my peace. Both are valid. Both are necessary.

There is no obligation to perform recovery or wear confidence like a costume. I don’t owe anyone visibility to prove I’m okay. Healing happens quietly, in private moments, in small decisions, in stitches that don’t need to be seen to hold.

Choosing when to be visible, and when to step back, has become one of the kindest things I do for myself. And if sewing taught me anything, it’s this: strength doesn’t have to shout. Sometimes, it just needs to hold.

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