Break Release

Being afraid is normal; pressing on despite the discomfort is the work. As I have opened the curtain to shine light on my technical training as a Royal Dressmaker, I find my inner self longing to retreat.

That longing comes only because everything is new. I am used to managing my domain of expertise. Here, in these moments, I am startled by a new muscle I am forming—learning when my brain seems to scramble, searching for familiarity where there is none.

I calmed myself, set up my sewing station in my home studio, and began each step I could recall from class. After three hours of wrestling in my sewing studio, I reached an acceptance: this will feel awkward, and it will take time to form a connection that may last a lifetime. I must be kind as I begin to climb this chapter of the fashion dream.

Have you ever tried something you longed to explore and felt overwhelmed by your own expectations of success? How can you scale back yet still move forward? What is one thing you can do to begin with confidence and conviction? It is about the learning process—and normalizing your learning curve.

Many years ago, I apprenticed—informally—under a master tailor named Calvin at the Gian Marco fine menswear shop. After long days working in a garment factory, I would arrive at the shop eager and tired, ready to learn. Calvin would hand me scraps of men’s pant hems, and I would practice the hand-sewing steps he taught me, stitch by stitch, seam by seam. I was also entrusted with refilling his bobbins on the industrial machine—small, quiet tasks that carried weight. Looking back now, I see that those moments were never just practice. They were an initiation into patience, discipline, and respect for craft—lessons that stayed with me long before I knew how deeply they would matter.
Sadly, due to the pandemic, my sewing lessons came to a halt. I became consumed by my work as a university center director, letting time slip away. It was while I was attending a conference that I received the news that Calvin—master tailor and dear friend—had passed away. In that moment, I realized I had busied myself with all the things that seemed important, when all I truly wanted was to return to that sewing room with Calvin. Now, in my own sewing studio, when I was feeling nervous at my industrial machine, I took out the hem scraps Calvin once gave me. I hand-baste them and hand-sew them just as he taught me, then position them on the machine exactly the way he did—using them to store my pins as he worked.
I cannot go back, no matter how much I wish I could, to sit beside him—learning and watching as he sewed.
Today, I will set up my ironing station before wrapping more presents for this Christmas celebration. And whenever I feel nervous and think I ought to stop, I will think of my dear Master Tailor, Calvin, and remember that I can do this—with patience and practice.

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