E40 Transcript
Pink satin. Pink chiffon. Burgundy velvet ribbon.
I can still see them now, folded neatly inside a small bag my mother had tucked away in the back of a closet.
I was nine or ten years old, and for reasons I still can’t explain, I wanted that bag of fabric more than anything else in the world. The colors, the textures, the shimmer of satin, the soft whisper of chiffon when I lifted it from the bag — it was like finding treasure.
The thing is, my mother said no.
But I begged. Oh, how I begged. I wore her down the way only a determined ten-year-old can, until finally, she handed me the bag.
And in that moment, holding those scraps of fabric in my hands, something shifted. I didn’t know it then, but this was the start of a lifelong obsession — one that would shape everything that came after.
Of course, what I imagined and what actually happened… well, those turned out to be two very different things. Let’s just say there were tears involved.
Today, I want to take you back to that first spark — to the moment I fell in love with fabric, and why that moment still matters, not just to me, but maybe to you, too.
Coming out of the past year, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting.
There’s something about walking through a season of healing that makes you want to go back and really look at where it all began — to remember why you fell in love with something in the first place.
For me, that something has always been fabric.
So over the next few episodes, I’m going to share some of my most personal stories — the memories that shaped not only my creative journey, but also the way I see the world.
And as you listen, I hope you’ll think about your own beginnings too.
The moments that sparked your love for what you do… and how those memories might still be guiding you today, even if you haven’t thought about them in a while.
Today, we’re starting at the very beginning — with a little bag of pink satin and chiffon that changed everything.
I grew up in a military family, which meant a lot of moving and a lot of making do. My mother sewed for us, partly out of necessity and partly because, on base, there wasn’t always a lot of shopping to be had. The Base Exchange had a little of everything, but not always what you really wanted.
I think that’s where I first began to notice fabric — because it wasn’t something you just went out and bought every time you needed a dress. It was a special occasion. And it always started with whatever fabric my mom could get her hands on.
One day, when I was about ten years old, my mother was cleaning out a closet. I was wandering around, probably looking for something to do, when I spotted this small bag tucked into the corner.
I opened it, and there it was: pink satin, soft pink chiffon, and a length of burgundy velvet ribbon.
The satin was smooth and cool against my fingers. The chiffon felt almost weightless, like it might float right out of my hand. And the ribbon — oh, that ribbon — it was deep and rich and somehow felt important, even though I didn’t know why.
I can still smell it if I close my eyes — that faint, dusty scent of stored fabric mixed with something slightly sweet, like it had been inside an old cedar chest.
And in that moment, I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.
My mother said no.
But I begged. I was relentless in the way only a determined ten-year-old can be. Please, Mums, please let me have it. I promise I’ll do something beautiful with it.
You see, in my head, I already knew what I was going to make: a ballerina outfit, complete with tiny slippers.
I could see it so clearly — the skirt swirling as I twirled around, the ribbons tied just so. It was perfect in my imagination.
Eventually, my mother gave in, probably just to get me to stop pestering her. And I clutched that bag of fabric like it was treasure.
Of course, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
I didn’t know about ease, or seams, or entry points. I didn’t understand that there was a whole structure to how clothes go together. I just knew I had fabric and a dream.
So I cut. And I sewed. And I tried.
And… it was a disaster.
To this day I remember exactly what went wrong — no way to get in, far too small for me, unfinished edges that were raveling faster than I could clean up. — and I do remember the feeling when I realized it wasn’t going to work.
I had ruined it.
The beautiful pink satin was jagged and misshapen. The chiffon was fraying at the edges. The ribbon was wasted on something that would never come together.
And I cried. I cried buckets of ten-year-old tears.
Because it wasn’t just fabric to me. It was possibility. It was magic. And now it felt like I’d ruined that magic.
My mother didn’t scold me necessarily. Instead, soon after that she took me to the local mall, to the Singer Sewing Store I think it was called.
Walking through those doors for the first time, was like walking in to Disney.
There were bolts of fabric stacked neatly, patterns displayed in shiny envelopes, and walls lined with every notion you could imagine. It was like stepping into another universe — one that was all about creating beautiful things.
She helped me pick out my very first pattern and a piece of fabric- I don’t even remember what the style was. But I do remember using her old featherweight Singer sewing machine — the same one I still have today.
That trip didn’t fix the ruined project. But It lit a spark in me that’s never gone out.
I learned something important that day:
That fabric, like creativity itself, isn’t fragile. It’s forgiving.
You can always try again.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that simple moment — learning to try again — was the start of something much bigger.
It was the beginning of a love affair with fabric that would weave itself through every stage of my life.
Looking back, I can see now that moment in the Singer Sewing Store wasn’t just about saving a ruined project.
It was the start of something much bigger — because from that day on, fabric wasn’t just a hobby. It was part of who I was becoming.
You could say the thread had been pulled, and there was no going back.
Not long after, I started noticing how fabric and design kept showing up everywhere in my life.
Take fifth grade, for example.
My friend Valerie and I sat next to each other in Mrs. Burns’ math class… and let’s just say, we weren’t exactly model students. While she was at the chalkboard explaining fractions, we were scuttling around between our desks, secretly designing paper doll wardrobes.
We had traced the shape of the paper doll so many times the paper was soft around the edges, and we spent every spare moment sketching, coloring, and swapping outfits back and forth like we were running a tiny couture house right there in the middle of math class.
We got in trouble constantly — and deservedly so — but at the time, it felt like we were doing something wildly important.
In fact, until about ten years ago, I still had the three-ring binder where I’d kept every single sketch. There were hundreds of them. Hundreds! Evidently, even at eleven years old, my brain had already decided what it wanted to do with the rest of my life.
Around this same time, my father went overseas for a tour of duty in Thailand. In one of the shipments he sent to us back home was a large box containing custom-made silk robes-one for each of us.
I’ll never forget the moment I opened mine.
The way the silk felt in my hands — it was emerald green with silver and gold embroidery - smooth, cool, and almost impossibly luxurious. The way it draped and shimmered when I held it up to the light. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before.
Those robes weren’t just gifts. They were my first introduction to silk, and let me tell you… it was love at first sight.
Even now, decades later, silk remains one of my absolute favorite fabrics to work with. There’s just something about it — the elegance, the texture, the sense of luxury it carries.
By the time I was in college, this love of fabric had only grown stronger.
I spent the last two years of school working at JoAnn’s, back when it was just fabric and sewing machines. No glittery crafts, no aisles of fake flowers — just row after row of fabric bolts.
I was assigned to work at the specialty branch called Showcase of Fine Fabrics — a boutique shop dedicated entirely to higher-end, luxurious fabrics. That was my happy place.
I can still remember the thrill of unrolling bolts of fine wool, silk, and linen for customers, running my hands over the fabric as I measured and cut. It was like getting paid to play in a treasure chest.
Of course, my paycheck didn’t exactly stretch far, because I spent more than a little of it buying fabric for myself.
And if I’m being honest… there were plenty of days I wasted away entirely at the fabric store, happily lost among the bolts and swatches, with no plan other than to soak it all in.
Looking back now, I realize that these weren’t random experiences. They were a thread, connecting all these different moments of my life into one long, continuous story.
And here’s where I want to bring you in for a moment.
What’s your version of this?
Maybe it wasn’t fabric for you — maybe it was yarn, paper, quilts, wool fibers… or something completely different.
Think about the first creative thing you ever obsessed over. The thing you couldn’t stop thinking about, couldn’t stop doing, couldn’t stop dreaming about.
How does it still show up in your life today?
Even if it looks different now, that first love often has a way of staying with us — quietly shaping who we are and what we create.
Sometimes, when we’ve been creating for a long time, especially if we’ve turned our creativity into a business, it’s easy to forget why we started in the first place.
We get caught up in deadlines and sales and strategies, and we lose sight of that first spark—the thing that drew us in before there were rules or expectations.
For me, that spark was a little bag of fabric.
Pink satin. Pink chiffon. A piece of burgundy velvet ribbon.
That’s where it all began. And when I think back to that moment, I can still feel the wonder and excitement of holding those scraps in my hands.
This week, I want to invite you to remember your first creative love.
What was the thing you couldn’t get enough of?
The thing you obsessed over, dreamed about, maybe even got in trouble for?
If so, you’re in good company.
Close your eyes and bring that memory to mind. Think about what it felt like to be so captivated you lost track of time…
And then, let yourself feel a little of that magic again.
Because it’s still there, waiting for you, even if life has gotten complicated since then.
In our next episode, I’ll share how that childhood obsession with fabric began to grow—how I learned to sew on my own and the surprising ways those early projects shaped my confidence and my creativity.
Until then, take a few moments to remember where your story began. You might be surprised at how much it still has to teach you.
And remember, just like fabric, creativity isn’t fragile.
You can always pick it back up and try again.
