introduction

IT WOULDN’T BE AN EXAGGERATION TO say that sewing saved my life and altered it forever. That’s a pretty big claim, and I’m ready to back it up.

In late spring 2012, I was in a sorry state: I was severely ill, overworked, undernourished, overweight, disconnected from family and friends. It didn’t start out that way, though. Just six months prior, I was at the top of my game. Or at least I thought I was at the top of my game.

I’d been welcomed into the fold of a large high-profile company, tasked to help shepherd what one manager called the “new crown jewel” product. It was a breathlessly fast-paced start-up environment, and the air was abuzz with the thrill of the unknown. “Scrappy,” we called ourselves, cobbling together procedures, assembling teams from scratch, making it all up as we went along. I reported to a sweet woman with a great sense of humor, and I remember feeling important as I tugged at the elastic attached to my employee keycard to swipe open the glass sliding doors. It felt like a grand reentry into the corporate world after years as a stay-at-home mom.

Then shortly after I started working full-time, my boss abruptly left for an earlier-than-planned maternity leave, and at first, things kept chugging along in the same exciting vein. I took on a lot more work to cover for her absence, and I was revved by the added responsibilities. This felt like Significant Work requiring brainpower, unlike the schlep of potty training or planning playdates for my daughter, KoKo, that had previously occupied my hours.

As the team grew, the mood shifted. Suddenly, eighty-hour workweeks and all-nighters were the norm. I opened my laptop first thing in the morning, before brushing my teeth, just in case a crisis had developed since the 11 p.m. conference call with India I’d just had the night before. Unlike the initial phase of the project, which was filled with ebullient plans described with lingo along the lines of “synergy” and “mold-breaking,” now my in-box filled up with bullet points that addressed problem after increasing problem.

But I’m a problem solver, and despite the lack of sleep, the nonexistent exercise regimen, and the horrific eating habits I was cultivating (a.k.a. the vending machine diet), I powered through. The higher-ups caressed my ego as they bandied about phrases like “rising star,” and they offered me an office with an ergonomic chair. More money. Public accolades. A 20 percent discount to an opulent gym that looked more like a nightclub, complete with a DJ and velvet lounge sofas.

Driven by newfound ambition and a sense of validation, I didn’t have much of a life outside of my job. One evening, as my family assembled around the kitchen table for a quick meal, my daughter exclaimed, “Mommy! We never have dinner together anymore. This is so weird!” I looked at my six year old with bleary eyes. My husband said nothing. Intellectually, I could clearly see that I was turning into someone else, someone I didn’t particularly like. The kind of person who chose Excel reports over family mealtimes. More often than not, I was a distracted and irritable mother and wife. My daughter’s words stung, and I fumbled an apology, but the next morning, I opened my laptop first thing again.

I was so caught up in my workaholic mayhem that I didn’t think it was outrageously odd when a pregnant coworker said, “I just hope the baby comes after the product launch date.” And when the stress became too much, I rushed over to the nearest mall during my short breaks to buy overpriced clothing with abandon. Pretty clothes gave me momentary relief, although my vending machine diet was forcing me to size up several times over, which then upped my stress. And so the cycle continued.

Just before I’d started my job, I’d gone to get my first routine mammogram and I was relieved to find out that I was clear of any cancer indicators. However, the doctor suggested that I go see a specialist because my thyroid hormone levels seemed a touch high. I hunted down a chipper, Harvard-educated endocrinologist who confirmed that I definitely had slightly elevated numbers. “But it’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just keep an eye on it and I’ll see you in three months,” she said cheerfully.

Three months later, I was back in her office and she knitted her brows with concern. My hormone levels had shot up to alarming levels. “Graves’ disease,” she pronounced, and prescribed medication. Thyroid abnormalities, which result in autoimmune disorders, affect a shockingly large number of people—women mostly—but my doctor said that no one really knows why. Stress seems to be a huge factor. This was very bad news for me, since I subsisted purely on stress. In fact, as soon as I returned to work, I forgot to take my meds in the whirlwind of other seemingly more important to-dos.

Sure enough, by that point, I exhibited disturbing health symptoms. I’d developed a chronic, body-wracking cough, and every time KoKo came home with a little cold from school, I would catch it and it would evolve into a state akin to pneumonia. Each time, my coughing worsened. I sounded strikingly like a seal in a torture chamber.

Still, I refused to stop working. I kept making mistakes, got mired in office politics, missed appointments and deadlines. The worst was when I would suddenly jolt upright during a stultifying meeting because I realized I’d forgotten one of KoKo’s school performances. Every day was a minefield at the office, and my workload increased as I produced less and worse. Panicked by my poor showing, I doubled down by virtually eliminating sleep and drinking about fifteen cups of coffee a day. This was a bad move. On several occasions, I shrunk in humiliation as I was publicly reprimanded and criticized in all-team meetings. At home, things weren’t any better. My star had fizzled out with a whimper.

My body kept deteriorating. One time, a coworker took me aside and asked in worried sotto voice if someone had punched me because my eye looked terribly bruised. It was an odd side effect of my condition, but what was odder was that when I went to look at myself in the bathroom, I couldn’t see it. I tilted my head this way and that, trying to get a glimpse of the black eye but with no luck. Whether this meant I was losing a grip on reality or whether I’d just gotten used to my beat-up appearance, I have no idea. I was a big, fat, sick mess.

And then, in May 2012, I got fired.

Initially I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Two people sat me down, squirmed a little, and informed me that my services were no longer needed. I am Asian—overachievement is baked into my DNA. My first job was at the age of twelve (I bussed tables at a restaurant), and I had never truly stopped working from that point on. In over twenty-five years, I’d held jobs in vastly wide-ranging fields and industries, and believed that my singular strength was in being an excellent worker. Getting fired was unthinkable! I sputtered. I cried. And then I left, fully shamed.

It would take over a year for me to understand it, but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

This book is about how—over the course of many, many months—I redefined my priorities, reversed my illness, and rediscovered my love of sewing and creating in general. How I learned to live better, on my own terms. I didn’t do it all at once though, it hasn’t been easy, and my life is far from picture-perfect now.

As a kid, I remember a woman who lived up the hill from my family, in the really nice part of the neighborhood. She was the mother of my brother’s friend, and she had this spectacular, airy house with gargantuan windows built by a famous architect. She wore cream-colored “ensembles” and everything surrounding her looked polished, spotless, and ready for a tea party (or so my twelve-year-old self thought). She was slim and fit and seemed like a devoted mother, but she also worked full-time at a glamorous design-y job; she represented the ideal for me. I don’t recall ever meeting her husband, but I imagined they had a lovely relationship centered around romantic candlelit dinners on their majestic balcony (I don’t actually know if they had a balcony since I only saw a portion of their house once). But I did know I wanted that.

For most of my adult working life, I’d been striving for the promise of the cream-colored ensemble, and for a couple of weeks at the beginning of the job that ultimately went all wrong, I felt like that woman with the magazine-worthy existence. I’ve since learned that the cream-colored ensemble promise is an empty one. Actually, I’ve learned that lesson a million times over, but like with most vital lessons, I seem to need to keep relearning it. The reality is that our house is ramshackle with windows that really ought to get washed more often. I wear almost exclusively gray, navy, and black clothing because it hides paint stains, and conversely shows stray threads from my myriad sewing projects—the darker colors make it easier to pluck them off. My days are messy, my relationships full of ups and downs, and from the outside looking in, my daily routines probably seem utterly boring.

But I’ll tell you this: nowadays how I spend my every day feels real, joyful, unpolished yet meaningful—and it is a privilege to be able to share my story and these projects with you.