that I am a seamstress

“Did you work at Fabricland?” she queried, while, for the first time in over two decades I submitted my seamstress work to a local competition. “Yes”, I nodded. “You’ve helped me a lot over there”, she replied. I smile and continue nodding quietly, recognizing that I feel strangely vulnerable with this public recognition of my past, and because I don’t understand why, I chalk it up to nervousness about entering the competition, 

and then I go home to think.

I’ve only recently begun sharing stories with the people of my present about these skills of my past. It is a fact that in the younger years of my life, I wanted to be a fashion designer and was absolutely skilled enough to get there. And then life did what life does and salted my journey, encouraging a series of pivots. Significant to note is that I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that professionally, I am right where the Universe needs me to be. I do not have regrets about the direction of my path, but I do ache for something unknown, and now, with this kind community member’s recognition, the ache calls for acknowledgement:

In the hustle of parenting and education/career development to whiteknuckle my fiercely beloved small posse out of poverty and the exhausting complications of multifaceted trauma recovery that accompanied, an entire section of my heart/spirit has been mostly unacknowledged.

That I am a seamstress was tucked away. 

That I am a seamstress will be neglected no longer.   

Redemption was the intent of entering my wedding dress into this competition. Honoring the journey I’ve walked since completing her a decade ago with a few days of public display feels meaningful. Deep within me, I've carried sorrow about investing so much of my spirit into creating a dress to begin a marriage that lasted only a few months, like my heart & talent were wasted on an event that didn't appreciate her. I can ignore this sorrow while the dress lives in a garment bag at the back of my closet, but apparently not while she’s front and center in my craft room receiving glow-ups for competition prep. The grief processing that has developed over the last couple weeks was wholly unanticipated. 

While hand-stitching crochet daisy lace onto her waistband, the needle poked my thumb, drawing a spot of blood onto the lace, and onto a length of the thread. This pinch of pain and drop of red was vindication, and I believe, divinely appointed. She should have my blood on her. The road I’ve walked since wearing her has been brutal and war-some at times. 

This marriage created: a path into sobriety, the weaving of a self-promise to no longer hold a man’s value above my own, acute awareness that single parenting is hard, but not near as hard as doing so amidst splintered attachment, drive to continue academic & professional development while engaging deeply personal therapeutic work, opportunity to weave a loving union with a human that teaches me again and again that I am phenomenally lovable the way I am, appreciation for laughter, blazing authenticity, and the engagement of an ongoing friendship with myself that in the path down the aisle that fateful day I hadn’t known was possible.

So it's okay that I have sadness simmering while she's on display. The sadness this time is heaps more wise & self-loving than the panic she wore last time. My marriage might not have lasted long, but the aisle I walked that day sent me down a path that was integral to the restoration of my soul. 

Hand on heart, tears rolling down my cheek, this is my truth.

I have got to buy myself a dress form,

E