Bri: Sewing for My Inner Child is Sewing for Sensitivity
A white person tying the collar of a bug print dress and looking up.
When I think about myself as a child I’m amazed by the wisdom, courage, and gumption I had. I was a go-getter and a problem solver. I was fully present. Unfortunately like many of us, as I grew up, I became less connected to that version of myself. Thankfully my sewing practice has given me a place to practice presence, curiosity, honesty, and empathy. My sewing practice is helping me reconnect to my inner child. Her brazen joy became a close companion in my sewing room and now it’s spilling out into other areas of my life.
When I was about three my parents were hosting a family holiday. I wanted to take a bath but between the football and the turkey, no one had time to run a bath for me. I didn’t exactly know how the tub worked, so I climbed in the bathroom sink, filled my makeshift tub and splashed around to my heart’s content. Did I get in trouble? Yeah, but it was worth it.
A white toddler smiles cheekily while playing “bathtime” in the sink.
It became a joke that as a kid I was always naked. In theory I loved clothes. I had so much fun picking out the floofiest dress in the store, but when it came time to wear it, something wasn’t right. My mom did her best to cut out the scratchy labels, but if the fabric felt wrong or constricting, it all had to go – usually without regard to where we were or who was around. Looking back I can see how this was awkward and at times frustrating for my parents, but I gotta hand it to little me – as a child, I knew how to listen to and care for my body, and solve my own problems.
Here I am playing telephone in the backyard totally nude wrapped up in my favorite comforter.
A white toddler plays topless in a lawn chair, surrounded by blankets.
Like many of us, through both individual trauma and general enculturation, I grew up into a smaller, shallower version of myself. My focus shifted from solving my sensory problems to trying as hard as I could not to have them. Influenced by the adults around me, I learned to see my sensory needs as a shameful detriment rather than a neutral circumstance. I couldn’t think about solving my sensory problems (loud noises, itchy fabrics, uncomfortable shoes, etc.) because I thought I shouldn’t have had any issue in the first place. I spent most of my energy pretending that my body wasn’t in pain and that my mind wasn’t in chaos by telling myself to get over it or push through and of course to stay positive.
Even though I was diagnosed with ADHD at seven and fibromyalgia at thirteen, we didn’t really put together that sensory processing was an issue for me. We worked (to varying success) to address the inattentiveness of ADHD and the direct chronic pain of fibromyalgia, but we missed the common denominator that my brain simply processes stimuli differently. I was largely told to try to live as “normally” as possible and to not let my condition get me down.
I’ll pause to point out that I love my ADHD brain. Neurodiversity is a glorious gift. It’s intrinsically tied to my creativity and is part of what makes me an empathetic and holistic thinker. I’m so grateful to my mom who taught me to celebrate my uniqueness and who advocated for me with teachers and doctors. My relationship with fibromyalgia is a bit different. While I can’t celebrate chronic pain, I have pride in myself as a disabled person and I can now acknowledge my conditions with dignity and give myself grace and accommodations.
Following the medical advice of the time, I learned to live in this delusional positivity of never acknowledging either of my conditions. I always thought I could work my way into getting “better.” This delusion came crashing down a few years ago when I got into a car accident that left me concussed for ten months with damage to my optic nerve. I couldn’t read anymore. I felt very isolated from others and from who I knew myself to be.
That’s when I found sewing. Working with my hands to combine materials with inspiration not only helped heal my bruised brain, but also helped me reconnect to myself and begin to repair my relationship with my body and mind.
It sounds overly simplistic to say that the peace and freedom I’ve found in my neurodivergence, disability, spirituality, and sexuality have been because of sewing, but it’s certainly where it started. The act of measuring my body and putting time and energy into making something for the body I actually had was revolutionary. It allowed me to take stock of a physical reality and act on it without judgement.
Over time I started getting used to seeing my body’s size with neutrality and respect. This practice of truly seeing myself started chipping away at old beliefs that I should just take what I was given and never have an issue with anything. Instead of settling for a poor-fitting garment in a shop, I could make one that actually fit my body in a fabric that I liked, that felt good on my skin. I felt so empowered.
Then the online sewing community introduced me to the disabled community and I started warming up to the idea that I could have “special needs.” That was okay. But wait, special needs aren’t special at all! Everyone deserves to be comfortable and independent, to care honestly for themselves and their loved ones.
When I started accepting the reality of my body through measurements, I started finally allowing myself to take stock of other realities pertaining to my body. Like how I’d get so wrapped up in a project that I’d forget to eat or pee, or how I wouldn’t notice pain creeping in until it was too late and get caught in days lengths of pain cycles.
In the same way that I’d make a toile and get curious about the fit of a garment, I started listening to my body to get curious about what it was trying to tell me. I started listening to alleviate problems rather than ignoring pain and irritation or pretending that a garment that I can’t move my arms in is acceptable.
As I began making the clothes that I really wanted, I began to ponder what else I really wanted in my life. If I could tailor my clothing, could I also tailor...my pronouns? Sure the t-shirt off the rack is fine, it doesn’t fit great, but it’s okay I guess, and she/her is probably good enough too. But what if I could have a perfect fitting tee? I adopted she/they pronouns earlier this year and it’s been beautiful to prioritize what fits me.
The work isn’t finished. I’m still chipping away at years of internalized ableism, capitalism, fatphobia, and the works. But! I’m so grateful for my sewing practice for helping me relearn what it is to listen to my body and reunite me with my inner child who unabashedly solves problems and prioritizes care. I thought I would share my three most inner-child inspired makes and how they’ve impacted my journey toward wholeness.
Pin Dish
For a long time, literally months, I couldn’t figure out why I would get so irritable when I was sewing. Something was bothering me, but I refused to acknowledge it or take the time to figure out what it was in order to fix it. Finally one day I stopped trying to push through the discomfort. I took a breath and gave some dignity to my feelings. What was bothering me? The sound of my pins hitting the magnet! It was like a distorted echo rattling my brain. I finally realized that my brain was registering the sound as something threatening and starting up a pain response, which is very common with fibromyalgia. Once I accepted that this was a physiological response, alleviating it was so easy. I found a scrap of fabric and some wonder tape. I simply wrapped up the dish with the fabric, securing it with the double sided tape and voila – mean sound dampened! Problem solved! Little me would be so proud!
Close-up of a magnetic pincushion wrapped in fabric.
Perfect PJs
I put off making myself sleepwear because I thought it was boring and I’d rather make more exciting things. Plus I didn’t think I needed it. I was fine losing hours of sleep because I couldn’t get comfortable in my sleepwear. I told myself I needed to get over it. I was being way too high maintenance. Really, my brain was struggling to interpret my temperature. My thighs were so cold at night, or so perceived my brain (they were usually warm to the touch), but wearing pants was hot and constricting. My sides needed to feel covered but I couldn’t have anything tight over my back or I’d feel like I couldn’t breath. So yes, a bit complicated, but worth losing precious, essential sleep over? Of course not!
A white person sits cross legged at the head of a bed. They are wearing a t-shirt and shorts.
After three years of hemming and hawing and dragging my feet, I finally took stock of what I needed for a good night’s sleep. I made some shorts that offer coverage and full contact for my pseudo-cold thighs. I made a tee-shirt that is long enough to cover my sides and is wide enough to not feel constrictive against my upper back, but not so wide that I get wrapped up in it. I stitched them up in a day and I’ve never slept better! (Sleep still eludes me at times for other reasons, but at least cold thighs isn’t one of them anymore!) Getting better sleep has improved every aspect of my life and all it really took was acknowledging my body’s need.
A white person stretches on their bed smiling. They are wearing a t-shirt and shorts.
Buggy Wilder Gown
This one doesn’t have as much of a story. I just love it. It brings me so much joy. I feel like the buggy print connects me to my childhood curiosity. I feel so free and fun and whimsical when I wear it. And even on high sensitivity days, I still like the feel of this dress on my skin and it’s never constricting. Wilder for the win!
A white person stands modelling a bug print dress.
Honoring my inner child is a daily practice. I’m attending to my body as well as my hopes and desires. My inner child is truth and light. She doesn’t pretend that something is comfortable just because it looks nice. They don’t make themselves small when they have big feelings. She is honest about her needs and desires and thinks creatively about ways to problem solve and thrive in her environment. She’s a joy to be around. I'm forever grateful to sewing for reintroducing us.
Bri Ooms (she/they) is a queer disabled artist and freelance marketer, as well as volunteer co-editor here at Sew Queer. Bri is an Oregon-raised West Coaster at heart, but she currently lives in the Netherlands with her spouse, toddler, and fluffy cat. Find her @BriMichelleMade on Instagram or blogging at BriMichelleMade.com.
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