Reclaiming handwork as an act of freedom
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to handwork. I believe women have always used their hands—stitching, knitting, mending—not just to make things, but to move through joy and grief, love and loss. Needle and thread have long been a kind of compass, pointing us back to ourselves.
For twenty years, I’ve been what I call a journal quilter. I sew through my life—processing heartache, celebrating moments of joy, and finding peace in the rhythm of small, steady stitches.
Not long ago, while recovering from the flu, I picked up a piece of an old antique quilt and began stitching by hand. The fabric was fragile, with batting full of lumps and little bits of raw cotton seeds still inside. While it is easy to pierce the fabric, it is hard to make anything straight or perfect. Every stitch wanders off-course, and yet somehow, that feels satisfying.
These old quilts are imperfect survivors—like the women who made them—and working on them feels like a collaboration across time.
I often imagine the original maker as I sew. Who was she? Did she live on the windy prairie in a sod house, watching her children grow in the glow of a coal stove? Was she a proper woman who dreamed of another kind of life—something freer, wilder? Did she lose someone she loved, and pour her heartache into each square of that quilt? Maybe she stitched not just to keep her family warm but to keep her heart from breaking.
After finishing that pillow project, I found myself thinking a lot about samplers—those carefully stitched pieces young women made in the 17th and 18th centuries. I remembered scenes from a show I’d watched, where women embroidered samplers by firelight, their needles moving with quiet precision. So, I started reading about them.
Samplers were more than decoration. In those times, when girls weren’t allowed to go to school, stitching was both an education and a message. Through needle and thread, they learned literacy—the alphabet, numbers, Bible verses. Each sampler was a lesson plan and a life résumé, proving a girl’s skill, obedience, and piety. Those small rectangles of cloth were public announcements: I am capable. I am modest. I am ready for the life expected of me.
That realization caught me off-guard, because what I want from my art now is almost the opposite of that.
I used to be a meticulous embroiderer—learning every decorative stitch, mastering symmetry, perfection, harmony. But now, I crave crooked lines, uneven seams, mismatched colors. I want the mistakes to show, because they’re honest. My work has become a quiet rebellion—a declaration that imperfection is not just acceptable, but beautiful.
It’s funny that I’ve chosen samplers, a form once meant to prove virtue and discipline, as the place to be messy and uncontained. Each piece I make now feels like a small act of freedom and rebellion.
I’ve never been especially pious, unless standing under a massive oak tree and feeling awe counts as prayer. I’ve never been a model of morality, unless fighting for what I believe in counts as virtue.
These days, I’m less interested in being “good” at something and more interested in being experimental. I no longer want to fit myself into someone else’s pattern or expectation. So I keep stitching my small, imperfect samplers—each one full of authenticity, curiosity, and grace.
Every crooked line feels like a reminder: beauty doesn’t live in perfection. It lives in the human hand that keeps going.
