The Women Who Made Me

Some of my earliest memories of creativity begin with my sisters.

There was a time when we sat shoulder to shoulder, cutting old jeans into skirts and stitching flowers onto denim shirts. The thread felt endless then — shared, bright, and full of possibility.

But seasons passed.

We each stepped into new roles. New responsibilities. New versions of ourselves.

Losing our mom and dad changed the ground beneath us.

Grief has a way of exposing old patterns. Of pressing on places that were already tender. Of shifting roles we didn’t even realize we were still carrying.

The skein that once sat neatly wound between us slowly pulled in different directions until it tangled with life.

There were times we tried to sit together again and make something beautiful. But we weren’t just sisters anymore.
We were women carrying history.

Trauma does not disappear simply because we want closeness. It settles in the chest. It lives lower in the body. It rises quietly in tone and silence.

And sometimes that makes even the simplest moments harder than we expect.

I am learning something gentler now.

For my own healing, I have to lighten the load I carry.

I no longer have the same strength I once did — but I have clarity.

I cannot untangle every thread.

And I don’t need to.

I have so much still in front of me.

Family.
Grandchildren.
Creative mornings.
A life that deserves my steady presence.
And a dance that still needs dancing.

Healing, for me, is not restoring everything to what it once was.

It is learning how to carry things more gently.

The thread between sisters may be worn.

It may be tangled in places.

But thread, even when frayed, still holds memory.

For now, I am lightening what I carry so I can stay steady and well — and open to whatever may still mend with time.

Because somewhere in me, I still hear the hum of a sewing machine
and smell cinnamon rolls and roses warming the air.