A Lineage of Hobbies that Heal Us

I originally wrote this on February 26, 2025 - a few days before we learned my mother had Stage 4 cancer. As a result, this post was not published until now.

My namesake and paternal grandmother, Ora Kathryn, was a hell of a lady. She carried herself with dignity and class, the type of quiet dignity that comes from a certain generation of women who sat and stayed quiet. Her strength came not only from her silence but her self-discipline to not rip my grandfather to shreds when he talked about past affairs or tapped his coffee cup, passively requesting a refill. And so it was this quiet strength that I’ve attempted to channel the past six months. As my life fell apart. As I was served with accusations and divorce papers. As I accepted my home would be sold, and I would be forced, again, to start over.

I tend to think of this quiet strength when I’m sewing. Sewing requires a type of willful dedication to both attention to detail and precision, but also the delicate harnessing of creative energy into a workable, final product. My grandmother and other women in my family were seamstresses by trade, and worked in cramped warehouses in Lonsdale, stitching baseball uniforms and other garments. Despite the tethers and responsibilities of home, these women developed an immense skillset over time and my grandmother worked well past her retirement age. Her hands stitched garments as she slept, and until her death, her feet would pedal a sewing machine under the covers.

It’s this tenacity I attempted to channel as a serious conversation among partners turned into being served with papers, cut off from finances, and then expected - as so many women of my lineage were - to handle the rest. It took me two full months to realize what was happening was in fact real. I kept waiting for someone to poke me and say, “Kidding! Prank!”, but that moment never came. As I prepared our home to be sold, packed up my sewing room yet again, and worked quietly while my ex did nothing, it occurred to me that this was very real and I had lost. When I numbly met with a divorce attorney, I realized this shit happens every. damn. day. I was lucky this hadn’t happened to me sooner.

But, it had happened. My first marriage ended due to pornography addiction. When the church we worked for asked me for a statement, I stayed quiet. Despite considering this an absolute act of infidelity, I kept that to myself. I moved back to TN and his career and life carried on as he’d planned. I swallowed the disappointment. I contended with the loss of time. Out of that move I was inspired to finally create Modern Seamstress and she’s been an anchor for me for a decade: sewing through that marriage salvaged the self-esteem and confidence I had left, and wearing colorful dresses was literal reason to live juice for many years.

I imagine sewing was an anchor for many women in my lineage. The hum of a sewing machine can cover most nonsense, and the rhythmic nature of each stitch is like a meditative chant. I can be stitching a seam and lose myself in a memory or idea, coming out of it only when I notice the stitches are crooked. It is within this space of creative flow where our brains do a great deal of healing, and the hobby or skill that has utility is now life-saving. The cadence of stitches lures me into a place where I can process difficult shit while seeing and sensing beauty. Buffeted by beauty and creation, most things are manageable. This has to be how my ancestors, and I and many others continue each day. Amidst the song of birds there is loss and grief. Behind every smile there’s pain being masked. The only choice is to keep going.

But, having turned 40 this year, I’m tired of masking reality. I’m done hiding secrets that aren’t mine, or propping up the behavior and actions of others out of a sense of duty to institutions or roles. Ora Kathryn sat silently because that was “what you did” as a woman. Obstinance was institutionalized and tucked away. I met women as a volunteer at Lakeshore Mental Health Institute who had been locked away for years for disagreeing with their husbands. Some for refusing to iron shirts. It’s this history of treatment that deems it acceptable to deny a spouse through pornography consumption, or toss your spouse into poverty while you sit and watch. And none of this is okay.

During one of my darkest nights of the soul, when nothing was bringing me light, I remembered a story my father told from his childhood. When he was 5 or 6, Ora Kathryn suffered a miscarriage in the bathroom of their small home off Central Avenue Pike. My father and his eldest sister walked in the snow to their neighbor’s home for help. My grandfather was out with a mistress and probably didn’t care that his wife was bleeding out in front of their small children. But I gathered hope knowing my father braved the snow to save his mother, and she survived. One small act of bravery can ripple across time and save another. Bravery can be as small as, “Get out of bed.”

I’m proud to say the divorce is officially final, the house will list this week, and I am almost starting to feel okay with my new normal. I have no public space to see clients, and a drastically smaller living space, but I’m content knowing the hum of the sewing machine will keep me going. Surrounded by beautiful fabric and springtime, I know I will feel better. I’m eagerly shedding belongings and modes of being that no longer serve. Seeing clients again excites me to push forward. I’m grateful to a small group of beloveds who reminded me to eat and take care of myself, who took me out when I felt like shit, and who provided a safe haven for my grief. My one regret is not doing what my grandmother did: hide cash in a shoebox under the bed. Next time.

On the Topic of Modesty

Perhaps it was binge watching Season 7 of Riverdale or watching Don’t Worry Darling shortly after, but I can’t get the topic of modesty out of my mind. Both the show and movie are set in the 1950s, an idyllic time of few worries, circle skirts and cocktail hours. But the themes of oppression, control, and shame run through each in very similar ways, specifically the control of women’s sexuality, behavior, and finally, dress. I must admit that I fell in love with the fashion: tight sweaters with Peter Pan collars, full gingham circle skirts, t-strap heels - what’s not to love? It was a time when full figured women ala Marilyn Monroe were bombshells, but simultaneously compared to the more elegant and modest sophisticants like Jackie O. Despite being lauded for her beauty and form, Marilyn, as we now know, was also judged for her supposed incompetence, instability, and overt sexuality.

This brings me to the present day: we still judge and presuppose a woman’s character based on her attire. A few weeks ago I saw a meme on social media about women needing to cover themselves up. Modesty, defined here as the covering of our bodies, is applauded as a virtue - these women don’t need to garner attention by showing their skin. Instead, they are praised for their character - we’re never really told which traits but I’m assuming they include chastity, kindness, quiet servitude, agreement, and abiding by the rules. Maybe not. But I’m often shocked at how inanimate pieces of clothing are somehow used to determine and measure a person’s self-worth, character, worthiness and value.

I’m both shocked but not surprised - clothing has long been used to keep women in their place. Girdles, corsets and other garments were used to keep women upright, uncomfortable and literally unable to breath or move quickly. While these are now optional novelty garments for some, they represent oppression through clothing. The modern day equivalent? Telling a woman to dress modestly. Let’s take this further though, in the case of sexual assault. I don’t have a handy stat, but I suspect it’s a high percentage of women, whom after being assaulted and reporting it are asked, “What were you wearing?” As if the clothing were a powerful mist that once the man got a whiff, he turned into a ravenous beast who felt it his duty to assault a woman. In this way, clothing is quite powerful. Somehow clothing is the key to determining whether or not someone will violate another human being. Read that again. Just as clothing determines if someone is a slut or chaste, smart or dumb, thinks highly of themselves or not, it is also the scapegoat for the abhorrent acts humans are capable of committing.

When we use clothing in this way, whether to justify violence, control and dominate, or make a value judgement, we dehumanize one another. We use an inanimate object to determine another’s status and value and this is inherently dangerous. You’re welcome to disagree - we can still be friends if you do. I support your right to dress modestly and show as little skin as possible. But I also support the women I serve through sewing in feeling confident, vibrant, self-assured, powerful, and valuable, regardless of what society may think about their fashion choices. I want to see women excited about their bodies, not confined to the rigid and outdated rules of decades past.

Maybe some days I show a lot of skin and “look like a whore”. Maybe others I cover up and “look more pleasing”. I don’t ask these questions and I don’t give others this much power over my identity. I use my clothing to express my mood or feelings, to help me rally, to feel confident, powerful, and secure. I know what I feel and look best in, and I trust myself alone to make these decisions about what I should wear. If someone wants to judge my character based on the length of my skirt, that says more about them than me.

New Year, New Studio

I’m so excited to share my new studio space! Located in the sunroom of my home, this space was completely redecorated to accommodate my sewing business. Let’s take a look!

I spent the month of May moving plants outside, shuffling books throughout the house, painting and prepping this space to become my studio. It’s the perfect size for everything I need and has a private entrance for my clients. I invested in a sturdy and longer desk for my machines, and bought some woven baskets to hide supplies.

For years I’ve used two Kallax bookcases from Ikea as my sewing table. They’re definitely long enough but getting too short for my aging back! This cutting table with storage from Wayfair is perfect!

The space gets a ton of natural light which is perfect for sewing. I paired thicker blocking curtains with sheer panels so I can easily adjust the amount of light that comes in. My vintage dining table is perfect for meetings, and a window AC was an absolute must. (This might be the best purchase I made during the process.)

We had these bookcases already so I cleaned them up and used them for storage. Some succulents and jars from friends round out the space - thanks Margaux!

Thank you for joining me on this tour of my studio!