Sewing in a different phase of life
This is the beginning of what I expect will be a series of posts over the next couple of months.
When I sit in my sewing room and look at my list of projects, boxes of patterns, and stack of fabric waiting to be sewn, something is nagging at me. I’m procrastinating in the sewing room and that’s a sign that something is off kilter.
I don’t have a plan for this series. What I have are questions — about how sewing fits into my life and about retirement, identity, creativity, and what happens when the structure of work disappears but the a lifetime of being focused on performance, metrics, and production does not.
I suspect I’m not alone in this. Many of us reach retirement and discover that the habits of productivity, output, and “being busy” don’t vanish overnight. They just shift to something else.
If you’ve navigated this — or are navigating it now — I would genuinely love to hear your experience. What changed? What surprised you? What felt freeing? What felt unexpectedly difficult?
I’m writing this as I figure it out.
It’s been about 2 1/2 years since I stopped working. I didn’t retire. I quit a job that was a horrible fit and I hoped that I would find another job that was fulfilling and wanted to hire someone with amazing skills and energy who happened to be over the age of sixty. That didn’t happen. There was no gold watch and thank you for a lifetime of work speech at the end of my career. A door slammed and the phone and email in-box went silent. I know a lot of others have had the same abrupt ending to forty or fifty years of meaningful work. It’s jarring and a shock to the system.
When I worked full-time, sewing filled the margins. It was what I looked forward to at the end of the day. It was a way to express my creativity. Of course, I dreamed of being able to spend days focused on sewing. But once I was able to sew all day, I pivoted from productive work to productive sewing. And all of those years of making plans, scheduling projects, creating goals, and reviewing progress moved from my paid job to my sewing practice.
There is always something on the cutting table. Project Boxes lined up in order of priority. A weekly schedule that includes milestones and deadlines.
And if there isn’t? There’s a faint sense that there should be. No – not a faint sense. It’s a compulsion. Because if I’m not sewing, I must just be wasting time.
Tension and Procrastination
Organisation and order. Scheduling. Progress charts. My work life has carried over into the sewing room.
Of course I have a process. Acquire fabric and/or patterns. Cull a list of things to be sewn in short order because there must be something ready for the sewing machine at all time. Create a schedule for the next couple of months. Two items a week is ideal. One is not enough. Plan tasks for every day. Miss a deadline. Rejigger everything. Beat myself up. Decide it’s a new season and I’ll worry about it next year. Put all into the closet. Start over.
The sewing room is never closed. It’s like the kitchen in a restaurant. The lights go out in the evening and back on again in the morning.
I don’t love this order that I’ve created for myself. The compulsion to make things just because I have a piece of fabric and/or a pattern. Not because I necessarily want to wear that garment but because I have the pattern and/or fabric and therefore it must be sewn. How ridiculous. Gosh – could I be any more high red? (This is from a personality test that is done in the workplace. Those who are high red are always very productive … tick tock … pitter patter, get at ‘er)
And of course all this is self-imposed. I have a sewing channel on YouTube. I make friendly commitments to keep posting. But honestly — who cares if I don’t? I don’t owe anyone anything (aside from actual sponsor commitments).
The pressure is self-created. Which means it could stop. Right now.
And yet — I don’t want to stop sewing. I just want sewing to be satisfying.
My last project was pants. They were technical — adjusting the pattern, careful topstitching, a proper fly zipper. I had to pay attention. And halfway through I thought: this is thoughtful and enjoyable.
Not productive. Not creating content. Not output.
Sewing a t-shirt does not feel that way. It feels like obligation … A leftover rule from when I did the Ready to Wear Fast and bought no ready to wear for twelve months. I have realised that I can just buy the damned t-shirt. There is no morally superiority that comes from sewing a t-shirt (using $35 worth of fabric) instead of buying one for $12.
That realization feels both rebellious and strangely freeing. I don’t need to sew all of my clothes. I can buy things. In all honesty, I feel a little ✨ giddy ✨when I think that. Like I’m about to get a second scoop of ice cream for free.
I can sew fewer garments and make them better.
I can take a class and improve a skill without producing a finished object for Instagram or YouTube.
I can let sewing be a pastime again.
Part of figuring out my post-work style, I suspect, is separating identity from output. I am not more valuable because I produce more garments.
Maybe I need to start asking:
– What is worth sewing?
– What actually adds to my wardrobe?
– What feels like joy instead of obligation?
I don’t have a tidy answer now. It’s going to take thought and I know that writing it down will help.
But I do know this: sewing is something I love. And I’d like to keep loving it.
Coming in Part 2 … how on earth do I figure out who I am and my style now that I can wear whatever I want?
Janine Sews 
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