This week, I took my needle and thread down to the sea.
The waves moved in their own rhythm, and as I hand-stitched each seam, I found myself falling into their tempo. One stitch, one breath, one moment.
Sewing by hand is rarely fast. It’s imperfect, deliberate, and deeply human. Each stitch carries a lesson in patience, the kind we often avoid in a world obsessed with speed.
I think about how fashion, at it’s best, is not just about clothes but about time. The hours of making, the seasons of wearing, the years of memory woven into fabric.
What happens when we let ourselves value clothing not for it’s instant arrival, but for the effort it took to exist?
When I sit by the sea and sew, I feel connected to something older than me, the countless hands that stitched before, and the future ones that will.
