I Don’t Always Make Purses

I went into Hobby Lobby over the holidays with a gift card and no real plan—which is usually how the best projects begin.

I’ve sewn for most of my life. I love fabric for its possibilities, for the way it suggests a future without insisting on one. I also have a well-documented habit of buying fabric with ambitious intentions and letting it wait patiently for the right moment.

This Sunday turned out to be that moment.

I chose a fabric that felt quietly poetic—muted tones, butterflies, fragments of old text—and started sewing without overthinking it. No pressure. No expectations. Just the simple act of making.

It became a purse.

Not a statement piece. Not a trend. Just something well made, useful, and unexpectedly lovely. Structured without being stiff. The kind of bag that feels like it has a story, even if it isn’t in a hurry to tell it.

I don’t always make purses.

But when I do, they whisper French poetry and carry secrets.

Will there be more? Maybe.

Will it turn into something bigger? Possibly.

For now, it exists.

It was made with care.

It made me happy.

And that’s enough.