Stitching as expression not perfection
I shared a short reel recently about how many of us were put off stitching at school—told there was only one “right” way to do it. Neat stitches, even spacing, a perfect finish. No wonder so many people messaged me to say they didn’t pick up a needle again until years later.
That little Reel sparked such a warm and honest wave of conversation. Some of you told me you’re still trying to unlearn those early lessons. Others shared how you’ve slowly found your way back to stitch, this time on your own terms. I heard from people who’d been stitching for decades, now learning to trust their hands in a freer, more intuitive way.
The seed for this reel was actually planted a little earlier, during a talk I gave to the Sheffield Stitchers group. After the talk, I found myself in several conversations that kept circling the same theme: perfectionism. Many of the women I spoke to described feeling most comfortable when following a pattern or working within the bounds of what they’d been taught was “correct.” I was genuinely touched when a few told me that seeing my work had given them permission to “loosen up” a little—to allow themselves to experiment, even get things wrong.
It was lovely to hear, especially as I often feel a little nervous sharing my work with highly skilled sewers. As much as I enjoy giving talks, there's always that small voice that wonders whether my approach might be seen as too unorthodox or too rough around the edges.
But those conversations got me thinking about the many purposes of stitch—when the rules matter, and when we might choose to break them. Stitching can be a technical skill, a form of storytelling, a meditative practice, an act of repair. And sometimes, the most expressive work comes when we let go of the idea of “right” or “wrong” entirely. Maybe that’s why children’s stitching feels so full of life—because they haven’t yet learned to worry about perfection. They’re still creating with instinct, curiosity, and joy.
What can we learn from children?
One early years teacher sent me photos of her students’ first samplers—wonky, wonderful stitches that looked like lines of dancing marks. They reminded me of my daughter’s first attempts at sewing. Her thread wandered, looped, darted about—and she was so proud of it. No rules. Just joy.
I spoke to Sarah Hardy of Cutting and Sticking Club:
“I run an afterschool club for 5-7 year old kids at a south London primary school that I currently work at. The club is called ‘Creative Making’. I try to encourage the children to be creative with materials, especially things they might find at home. We sometimes look at what other creators/artists make or what the children might see around them and how this can spark an idea! I also want them to become increasingly adept at using their hands and the ‘feel good’ power of fabric that the children painted onto first. I then cut it and hooped it ready for them to have a go at stitching! Some had stitched before but many hadn’t. I like to think the shapes and patterns on the painted fabric might have inspired where their stitches might have travelled…”
Looking at these stitched pieces, I’m struck by how beautifully the expressive brushstrokes and stitches interact with each other. There’s something magical about the way a bold, quick swipe of paint can sit alongside the slower, more deliberate rhythm of hand-stitching—two very different gestures that somehow carry the same energy.
The painted marks feel instinctive and immediate, while the stitches bring a gentle pause, tracing or echoing the movement of the brush. There’s a dialogue happening between materials and making—playful, thoughtful, and full of possibility. I love how each piece holds the spirit of exploration that Sarah described: letting materials lead, and following that spark with your hands.
The Weight of Perfection
Many of us learned stitch as something to be judged—by neatness, by uniformity, by how closely we followed instructions. There’s value in skill, of course. In practice and patience and quiet precision. But when that’s the only version of “good” we’re taught, it can close down the space for experimentation. And without space to explore, how can creativity thrive?
I've often thought about how we treat a wobbly line made in pen or pencil. It’s rarely called a mistake—just part of the sketch. But if a stitch is uneven, we’re quick to call it wrong. Why is that? Stitching is just another form of mark-making. Another way to draw. Another way to speak.
Rediscovering Freedom
So what happens when we stitch like a child paints—freely, instinctively, without worrying about the outcome? What might open up when we let go of needing things to be perfect?
For me, that shift has made all the difference. I’ve learned to value expression over precision, feeling over finish. My work often includes visible mending, frayed edges, irregular marks. I see them not as flaws, but as part of the story. I love that hand stitching can hold so much—emotion, memory, time. Sometimes it’s the uneven stitches that say the most.
There is space for all of it. For the carefully counted and the wildly expressive. For the deeply skilled and the wonderfully improvised. For the tiny perfect French knot and the big intuitive sweep of thread. They’re all valid. They’re all part of the same language.
This piece was one of my first experiments with working intuitively using fabric offcuts—playing with shape, texture and colour to mimic the movement of brushstrokes. I remember shifting the scraps around until something clicked, letting instinct guide the composition rather than overthinking it. The stitches came later, helping to lead the eye across the piece—some lines sweeping through, others anchoring the shapes or gently disrupting them.
Edges were left raw, fabrics layered and stitched in a way that felt almost haphazard, but purposeful. There’s an energy to it that I’ve found hard to replicate since. Maybe that’s a good thing—because this piece really captured a moment. It was created with what I had to hand, and I think that immediacy gave it a kind of honesty. Trying to recreate it would feel too controlled, too contrived. Sometimes the strongest work comes when you stop trying to make it perfect and just let it happen.
Two Ways of Remembering
A thoughtful comment left on one of my reels brought back a memory I hadn’t revisited in years. It reminded me of a picture book I loved as a child — The Bedspread by Sylvia Fair — and helped me realise how much it shaped the way I think about stitching, even if I wasn’t aware of it at the time.
“I’ve been sewing since I was 5– various forms and styles. I’m 73 , raised on a farm — the sixth generation actually. We learned to be self sufficient.
One grandmother was a perfectionist at hand sewing, quilting, knitting, crochet, needlepoint, crewel, cross stitch anything to do with fine ladies handwork.
The other grandmother— not too much. She didn’t have time for fancy handwork— she did the utilitarian work of mending, sewing buttons on , darning socks , patching up jeans and making aprons, pajamas and the everyday things you need.
I wanted to do the pretty stuff— which according to my grandmother’s standards was perfect. If it wasn’t— rip it out and do it again!
I’m still working on ‘letting go’— and accepting imperfection. That little voice still tells me ‘If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing right’. I have to remind myself, I set the standard for ‘ right’ these days.”
Reading the comment stirred something. It reminded me of The Bedspread by Sylvia Fair, a book I loved as a child. It’s the story of two elderly sisters, both bedridden, who grow tired of staring at the ceiling and decide to stitch their shared memories of their childhood home onto either end of a white bedspread.
One sister is very skilled—she remembers the stitches she learned as a child and approaches the task with precision and technical confidence. The other is less experienced with embroidery but vividly remembers the feel and spirit of the home—the joyful, sensory details.
Each day, they stitch the same scenes: the windows, the garden, the trees, their home. But when they finally rotate the bedspread and see each other’s work, they’re both surprised. The more accomplished sister realises she was so focused on neatness and technique that she left out the warmth and joy her sister had captured. Meanwhile, the less experienced sister worries that her messy, expressive stitches fall short of her sister’s skill.
But both versions are beautiful in their own way. The bedspread becomes a testament to two ways of remembering, of stitching, of being in the world. It’s a story that has stayed with me — because it reminds us there’s space for both. For the precise and the instinctive. For the measured and the messy. Both are valid. Both are valuable.
A Stitching Prompt to Try
If you’d like to explore this idea yourself, here’s a simple stitching prompt you can try at home:
✶ Stitch Like a Scribble ✶
Choose a small square of fabric—something you don’t mind experimenting on. You can hoop it or stitch without one, allowing your threads to gather the fabric.
Pick a thread colour that feels good in your hands.
Instead of planning, start stitching as if your needle is a pencil.
Let your hand move freely. Try loops, lines, zigzags, dots—whatever comes.
Don’t unpick anything. Let it be what it is.
Imagine you're six years old again, playing with colour and shape. No rules. No pressure. Just thread making marks.
When you’re done, take a moment to look at what you’ve made. What does it remind you of? How did it feel?
However your stitches land on the fabric—loose, layered, wonky, or neat—they carry something of you. Each one is a decision, a gesture, a moment. And maybe, the most meaningful work doesn’t come from getting it “right,” but from letting your hands speak freely. What stories might your stitches tell, if you stop trying to make them perfect?