Cut From the Same Cloth
On mothers, sewing machines, shared dresses, and the women who taught me creativity long before fashion became my career (Issue #057)
Jessica’s Journal
Before I ever understood fashion, I understood fabric.
Not in a professional way. Not through trend reports or luxury houses or sourcing meetings. I understood it through the women in my family who made things with their hands.
My mother could make almost anything.
Wedding dresses. Prom dresses. Suits. Coats. Curtains. Pants. Jackets. Bed sheets. Alterations. Whatever was needed, she figured out how to make it.
My grandmother was simpler in her sewing. School clothes. Everyday pieces. Practical things. But both of them lived the same reality: you used what you had, and you made it work beautifully.
That was normal to me.
Fabric everywhere. Pattern pieces spread across tables. Chalk markings. Pins scattered around the room. The sound of Singer sewing machines humming late into the night while everyone else was asleep. Sometimes I would help cut patterns without fully understanding that these small moments were shaping my entire future.
And looking back now, I realize sewing was never just sewing.
It was survival.
It was creativity.
It was pride.
It was elegance, even when money was tight.
Nothing went to waste.
If there was leftover fabric, you made something else with it. Which is exactly what happened in this photo. My mother had a dress made from the fabric, and I had one too. At the time, it was practical. There was extra fabric, so of course you used it. A lot of women did this then. Mothers and daughters matching through whatever was available at the fabric store or whatever could be made at home.
But now, years later, I look at this photo differently.
I see the beginning of my relationship with materials before I had language for it.
Before I understood sourcing, development, or luxury, I already understood that fabric had value. Not just monetary value. Emotional value. Functional value. Transformational value.
And honestly, I think that’s part of why I still care so deeply about materials now.
Because to me, they were never disposable.
They were chosen carefully. Used fully. Respected.
Even the smallest scraps had potential.
The older I get, the more I realize how much those early experiences shaped the way I see fashion today. Not just as an industry, but as memory, labor, care, and resourcefulness stitched together.
So today, I’m thinking about mothers, grandmothers, caregivers, and all the women who quietly created beauty out of whatever they had available to them.
The women who taught us creativity long before we understood the word for it.
Happy Mother’s Day.