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.