Hi everyone, I don’t usually post things like this, especially something this long. But I guess today, I need to share something deeply personal. Something I’ve never really talked about.
Growing up, my grandmother was my world. She was quirky, loving, and had this endless repertoire of stories that always had me enthralled. I remember rainy afternoons snuggled next to her, her fingers weaving magic from ordinary tales. But above all, she was a talented seamstress. Her sewing room was a sanctuary—a realm of colorful fabrics, spools of thread, and the reassuring hum of her Singer machine.
After she passed away six years ago, I inherited her sewing kit. It was this old, wooden box, edges worn by time and use. At first, it just sat on the shelf in my room, a silent testament to a love I couldn’t quite revisit.
A few weeks ago, I finally felt ready to open it. Inside, everything was as she had left it: buttons neatly sorted by size, threads organized by color, and her old pair of silver scissors gleaming with the care she had always shown. Nestled among the sewing tools was a small, fabric-bound notebook. Curious, I picked it up.
The pages were filled with her neat cursive, each entry a project she had worked on. Dresses for friends, mended socks for my grandpa, quilts made with love. The last few pages, though, were different. Instead of project details, they contained scattered thoughts and reflections.
It was on these pages that I discovered a truth I never knew about her. In her own words, she wrote about her struggle with belonging. She had come from a different country, and though she rarely spoke of it, she had never quite felt at home here in the States. Her sewing, she wrote, had been her way of weaving herself into this new world—a way to connect and communicate when words failed her.
As I read, tears began to blur the ink on the page. I realized that every stitch she had sewn was a piece of her heart reaching out, attempting to create ties stronger than the thread she used. I had always thought her stories were just whimsical tales from her imagination, not knowing they were echoes of her own life—a search for identity and connection.
The notebook was a revelation. It was as if she had left a part of herself for me to discover, to understand her in a way I never could as a child. Her love, now apparent through her quiet resilience, gave me a sense of her that was beautifully profound.
In that moment, I felt a deep connection with her struggles. I too had often felt out of place, never quite fitting into molds society seemed to cast for me. Her words, her journey, somehow gave me permission to embrace my own uniqueness.
I’ve started sewing again, using her old Singer machine. With every stitch, I feel her presence, as if guiding my hands, whispering that it’s okay to craft my own story, to thread my own path, and to find solace in creating.
I’m sharing this today not only to honor her but to remind myself and maybe you, dear reader, that sometimes, understanding who we are and where we come from can be found in the most unexpected places.
Thank you for letting me share this. 🌸