E41 Transcript
Do you remember the very first fabric project you ever made - entirely on your own?
That magical moment when you realized you could take something that lived only in your imagination and turn it into something real — something you could hold, or wear, or share with the world.
For me, that moment came with a hilarious case of show-and-tell, and a stubborn refusal to take the usual route.
Last week, I shared the story of how my love of fabric began with a little bag of pink satin and chiffon — the spark that started it all.
Today, we’re moving forward to the next chapter: how I learned to sew, and how those early projects shaped the fabric and sewing life that eventually became the foundation for everything I do now.
Because sometimes, learning to make something for yourself isn’t just about fabric and thread — it’s about independence, creativity, and finding your voice… one stitch at a time.
This quasi-series is all about the memories and experiences that shaped my creative life — the stories that built the foundation for everything I do today.
As you listen, I hope you’ll think about your own early projects. The first things you made when you were just finding your voice… before there were rules, before you really knew what you were doing, and before you were worried about getting it all “right.”
Last week, I shared how my love of fabric began — with a little bag of pink satin and chiffon, and a very big ballerina disaster.
After that heartbreak, my mother took me to the Singer Sewing Store. That was where I bought my very first pattern. It wasn’t anything complicated — probably just a simple A-line dress, because honestly, what more does an eleven-year-old really need?
I like to think it was the sewing version of training wheels. No sleeves, no tricky zippers, just a straightforward little dress… though I’m sure at the time I felt like I was making something worthy of a runway debut.
My mom gave me a few soft lessons on her old featherweight Singer, and before long, I was starting to get the feel for it — the hum of the machine, the rhythm of the stitches, and the magic of turning flat fabric into something wearable.
That was the real beginning of my sewing life, though I didn’t realize it at the time.
That summer became a turning point for me.
While other kids were heading off to camps or summer school, I was heading somewhere completely different — the back room of the Singer Sewing Store for sewing lessons.
I can still picture it like it was yesterday. The room was tucked away at the back of the main shop, with eight sewing tables lined up in two rows along the side walls. At the very back were two ironing boards and a big cutting table, and near the front, there was a demo table where the teacher would show us different techniques before we got to try them for ourselves.
It wasn’t fancy, but to me, it felt like stepping into another world — one filled with endless possibilities.
We’d learn a few things, sew a little, then go home and practice, before coming back with our projects to work on them under the teacher’s supervision. I loved every single second of it.
That summer, I tackled two projects I’ll never forget: a polyester pantsuit and a fully tailored three-piece women’s suit. Wildly ambitious at my age! But I don’t remember them being difficult. I loved it.
Now, I’m not saying these were style icons by today’s standards — this was the era of polyester double knit and bell bottoms, after all. But back then, it was the hot look… now, well, let’s just say the memories make me laugh. The pant suit was a bright, almost psychedelic bright, floral printed polyester double knit kimono style wrap jacket, and a pair of white polyester double knit huge bell bottom pants. The suit was another polyester gaberdine number, in a deep maroon, fully lined with a vest and welt pockets. And those lapels — oh, they were massive — almost five inches wide. I cringe to think about it-
But at the time, I was incredibly proud…and stylin’
I wore those outfits with confidence and got so many compliments at school. And honestly, they represented so much more than just clothes — they were proof that I could make pretty much anything I could dream up.
By the time I reached middle school, I wasn’t just making clothes anymore.
Those lessons taught me more than how to sew. They taught me patience, persistence, and the joy of turning flat fabric into something uniquely mine. Without a doubt, those lessons, while I don’t do tailored jackets anymore, certainly taught me the patience and tenacity to custom fit a wedding gown and hand-bead it to boot!
And maybe most importantly, they gave me a sense of vision and independence — this feeling that I wasn’t limited by what was on the store racks or what someone else decided was in style.
I could create my own world. That’s a lesson I still use today.
But as my skills grew, so did my determination to do things my own way — which came to a head when I hit middle school and faced my first real challenge with sewing in the classroom.
At Fernwood Junior High, starting in seventh grade, there was a hard-and-fast rule: girls took Home Ec, and boys took Shop. Period. No questions asked.
In Home Ec, you learned two main things — sewing and cooking — both of which I could already do in spades.
I mean, you don’t grow up in a military family with three kids and not know how to pitch in around the house, whip up dinner, or fix something that broke. These were survival skills in our family, not electives.
But the sewing part?
Oh, I really didn’t need that.
Back then, the curriculum was very structured. You’d spend weeks learning how to cut out a pattern. Then a few more weeks on how to sew a dart. Then even more on straight stitching.
And if everything went well, you might — might — come out of the class with a perfectly stitched little A-line shift dress.
There was even a required supply list and a specific pattern you had to buy, though you could at least choose your own fabric.
And I just remember thinking… WHAT?
That was “so last summer!”
I’d already done that — and moved way beyond it.
Spending weeks learning to sew a dart? No, thank you.
So my mother and I went to the school’s guidance counselor and explained the situation.
I was honest — probably too honest. I said I’d be bored out of my mind, and if they made me sit through weeks of “how to sew a dart,” I just… wouldn’t. Couldn’t!
It turned into a bit of a fight. The teacher wasn’t thrilled about making exceptions, and I get it — rules are rules.
Finally, they asked me to bring in the garments I’d already made to prove my point.
I was thrilled to do this, by the way. I gathered up my best pieces, walked them into the school, and laid them out like a mini fashion show.
My mom was standing there like a proud peacock, and I was… well, let’s just say “quietly smug.”
By the end of that meeting, everyone agreed I didn’t need to take Home Ec.
I still laugh thinking about it now, but at the time, it felt huge.
Looking back, it’s funny to think how much has changed.
I don’t even know if Home Ec is a thing anymore — do they even teach it today?
Meanwhile, I kept sewing on my own, creating my own challenges and projects instead of following a prescribed path.
And that’s what this experience taught me: sometimes, the best path forward isn’t the one laid out for you.
It’s the one you create for yourself.
Being excused from Home Ec gave me something far better than a free period.
It gave me freedom.
Without the structure of a classroom dictating what I could make, I suddenly had the space to create whatever I wanted. And I took full advantage of it.
Through junior high and high school, I practically made all of my clothes.
Now, I wasn’t one of the popular kids.
I was more in the “smart kid” crowd, the ones who did well in school but weren’t exactly being asked to sit at the cool table in the lunchroom.
But here’s the thing…
When you show up wearing something no one has ever seen before — something no one else could have — it changes how people see you.
I wasn’t trying to stand out. Honestly, I just loved making things. But I did start to gain a certain amount of respect because I was different.
At the end of each school year, the yearbook came out, and it always gave me a little thrill to see the mentions about my clothes.
Sometimes it was in the captions or the way my friends signed their autographs — these funny little nods to the fact that Virginia would never come to school wearing the same thing as anyone else. She was always showing up in something she made. The question was: “Where did you get that? Let me guess, you made it?” The answer was invariably: “Yes.”
That was the best part.
Knowing that no one could show up to school wearing the same outfit as me.
That thrill of absolute originality — that was my happy place.
And the creative freedom it gave me was incredible.
The real magic, though, came during prom and homecoming season.
While everyone else was stuck with whatever the local stores were selling, I had limitless possibilities.
And I’ll admit, there was a little satisfaction in knowing that some of the girls who always seemed to look a little more polished and popular than me — couldn’t compete with my one-of-a-kind gowns.
Take that, retail shopping!
Around this time, I began to experiment with altering patterns, adding embellishments, and pushing beyond the directions printed on the page.
I had no idea at the time what a Pandora’s box I was opening. I was in heaven!!!
That tinkering was the first step into true design work.
Back then, it just felt like fun — “What happens if I move this seam?” or “What if I add a pleat here?”
But looking back, I can see so clearly that this was the moment where my future was starting to take shape, even if I didn’t recognize it yet.
My high school schedule was all science and math — I was actually on track for medical school, believe it or not.
I never took art or Home Ec at school because my sewing table at home was my classroom.
It wasn’t until the very start of my senior year that it finally hit me:
I didn’t want to go to medical school.
I wanted to go to design school.
My parents were thrilled and immediately started researching programs.
My school counselors?
Let’s just say they were… less enthusiastic about my sudden change of direction.
Looking back now, all the warning signs were there — the entire trajectory of my life and career was already being built through my entire young life.
And it wasn’t just about me anymore.
As my skills grew, friends started asking me to make special pieces for them too.
There was something so rewarding about creating something just for someone else — something that made them feel special and unique.
That sense of community, of using my creativity to bring someone else’s vision to life, lit a new kind of fire in me.
My very first paid sewing gig came when one of my close friends was chosen as Carnival Queen.
And let me tell you, there is nothing better than going to the fabric store with your best friend and her mom… on their dime!
We shopped for sparkle organza, silver lamé, rich satin, gold and silver trims, rhinestones, sequins, you name it.
I still remember standing there surrounded by all that glittering fabric, practically giddy at the possibilities.
And somewhere between the rhinestones and the beadwork, another seed was planted — my lifelong love of sparkle, and the early beginnings of what would one day become a wedding gown and costume business.
At the time, though, I was just a teenager thrilled to be paid for doing something I loved — and thrilled that my friend felt like an absolute queen on her big night.
As I look back on those years, I realize sewing was never just about the clothes I made.
It was about independence, about creating a life that felt like mine — one choice, one fabric, one garment at a time.
Maybe your story looks completely different.
Maybe it wasn’t sewing for you. Maybe it was quilting, knitting, weaving, felting, or some other kind of making.
Or maybe you didn’t come to this creative world until later in life, after kids, careers, or other responsibilities gave you a little space to finally explore it.
Whatever your path has been, I want you to think about your own milestones for a moment.
The first project that made you feel truly proud.
The first time someone asked, “Wow, you made that?”
Or that moment you realized your creativity could shape not just the things you made… but the way you showed up in the world.
Because here’s what I know: it’s never just about the project.
It’s about what it represents — confidence, voice, vision.
And yes, there were plenty of missteps along the way.
The crooked seams, the ill-fitting garments, the late nights spent with a seam ripper in one hand and sheer determination in the other.
We’ve all been there.
Those challenges aren’t failures — they’re the proof that you were learning, growing, and daring to try.
So as you think about your own journey, I hope you’ll give yourself credit for those early moments, no matter how imperfect they felt at the time.
They weren’t just projects.
They were the building blocks of the creative life you have today.
And if you’re still at the beginning of your journey, still figuring things out — I want you to know that everything you make, even the messy first attempts, matters.
Just like my maroon jacket with the five-inch lapels mattered.
Just like that carnival dress covered in sequins mattered.
Each step you take is part of a much bigger story — one that only you can write.
Those early sewing years built the foundation for everything that came next — from sewing for others and exploring special occasion garments, to eventually stepping into the world of professional design and turning my passion into a career.
Next time, I’ll take you behind the scenes of what it was like to enter that world — from fabric reps laying out bolts and swatches like treasure, to the thrill of discovering trims and specialty fabrics you could only dream of as a home sewist.
It was a season of creativity on a whole new level, and it changed the way I saw fabric forever.
Even if you’re sewing just for yourself or on a small scale, you’ll discover ways to bring some of those professional practices into your own projects — adding a touch of that magic to your own creative process.
In the meantime, I hope you’ll take a few moments this week to think about your own early milestones.
The projects that made you smile, the ones that challenged you, and the ones that maybe even made you laugh years later.
I invite you to think about the turning points in your own journey.
The moments where your creativity took a leap forward — whether in skill, confidence, or possibility.
Those moments are worth revisiting, because they remind you how far you’ve come… and how much potential still lies ahead.
Marvel at the creativity and possibility that’s been there all along — because those memories aren’t just part of your past.
They’re clues to the incredible creative journey still unfolding ahead of you.
