tHREDz Never Break
by Madi A. 03/2026
I was barely tall enough to reach the table when I started designing Barbie clothes. Using a needle and thread, I was sewing by hand from scraps of fabric left over from my mom's dressmaking jobs. Every creation ended with a fashion show. I proudly showed off my ‘fashionista's’ traits, using vibrant descriptions, while presenting my classic looks and modern-chic styles, and even dipping into the avant-garde of fashion to impress all my friends.
While my mother used her sewing machine for commissioned work, I wasn't allowed to touch it; in case I broke it, she wouldn't be able to finish her orders. But when my parents went out, I would sneak downstairs and sit at the sewing machine. It was a 1960s Singer sewing machine. Before touching anything, I carefully created a snapshot in my mind so I could return everything exactly as it had been.
My first creation on my mother's sewing machine was a handbag made from denim fabric. Yes, I broke a few needles trying to sew four layers of denim and had to figure out how to replace them myself, but I did. I was so proud of my first piece, though I couldn't show it to anyone just yet. Eventually, I brought it home from school one day, claiming it was a school project.
Over the years, that bag would surface here and there. After my father passed, I was cleaning out his wood workshop in the garage to prepare the house for sale. On the top of a shelf, I noticed some fabric neatly rolled and tucked away. As I pulled it down and unrolled it, there it was, my jean bag. I dusted it off and held it as if it were made of gold. I stared at it, even smelled it, wondering what it was doing in there. My father had kept it all this time, stored safely for over five decades. He had seen its worth long before I understood it myself. How priceless was that?
In my pre-teen days, I was more than just a dressmaker or a seamstress; I was dabbling in design, clothes my friends bought at stores. My grandma and I registered for a Tailoring and Designing night class at the local secondary school, surrounded by a group of older ladies. They would call me a ‘modiste’, though I didn't feel quite like one just yet.
I tailored myself a dark grey wool, lined three-piece suit. The blazer had a dark grey base with a faded plaid of light blue and a very thin dark blue pinstripe. The pants and vest were solid dark grey. Everyone, including the teacher, was amazed by the skill set I possessed at such a young age, specifically, my ability to interpret and execute a complex technical pattern. In elementary school Home-Economics, I designed, created, and modelled a fuchsia, silk-lined graduation dress in a local fashion show. My teacher was wonderful at promoting her students' creations.
In high school Home-Economics, I created a deep bordeaux silk satin two-piece blouse and long skirt inspired by a design I saw in a Vogue magazine. I still have the torn-out page. Finding the pattern was an adventure.
This was pre-Internet. Searching meant driving to Fabricland Store, flipping through massive pattern catalogues and hoping for an available chair at the viewing table. Depending on the time of day, I would sit on the floor for hours, studying Vogue, Burda, McCalls, and Simplicity patterns. Finally, there it was, the perfect pattern in the Vogue catalogue. The blouse required a different design, which I eventually found in Burda. It needed tweaking, but I was confident I could make it work.
My outfit became my masterpiece. Whenever someone would compliment it, I proudly replied, “I made it”.
By secondary school, I was already taking commissioned jobs, replacing zippers, adding buttons, hemming jeans, sewing outfits and even prom dresses. I mastered taking a favourite pair of jeans and transforming them into a skirt. For me, it was like a Tetris game: open the legs flat, cut them, and add a triangle cut from the scraps to form the flare. Wasn't that simple? Along with the skirts came the denim bags. That was even more straightforward in my mind: cut off the legs, sew the bottom, and add a zipper and a strap made from the leftovers. Wasn't that perfect!
After years of sewing on my mother’s machine, my parents surprised me with my own, a brand-new Kenmore, complete with all the extras hers didn’t have. For the first time, I didn’t have to sneak. I finally had a machine and a dream that was entirely mine.
In the mid-1980s, when Cabbage Patch dolls took the world by storm, I created countless clothing styles for them. My business was called ‘Sew What!’. I became known for my Doll & Me, twinnies. At Christmas, I produced a custom package by the dozen, matching dresses for the little girl and her doll, sewn from the same fabric. For ten dollars per package (three pieces, dress/hat/booties, or pants/top/hat), I was clearing over a thousand dollars a week.
It was time for an upgrade. With my own earnings, I bought a top-of-the-line ‘Janome’. Nearly forty years later, I’m still sewing on that same machine, proof that quality, like passion, lasts.
In the early 1990s, as a single mom, I entered the corporate world to provide for my three children. But at night and on weekends, I continued sewing under my new business name, ‘Xpress It, with fabric’. Even part-time, I remained a dressmaker, seamstress, and designer of clothing, home décor and specialty garments. My three children were always dressed to impress!
My craziest sewing project, however, was my own Mother-of-the-Groom dress. After ensuring everyone else was ready, and juggling a full-time work schedule, I found myself sitting at my sewing machine with my navy blue georgette fabric for the dress, and navy blue with taupe sequins for the long vest to accessorize, after the rehearsal dinner, the night before the wedding. With my Aunt Rizzo cheering me on, I let the engineering in my head take over. I just needed to get the scissors cutting, the machine sewing. By midnight, the two-piece masterpiece was hanging on Jazzy, my sewing mannequin. When I received compliments the next day, I chuckled and replied, "I made it last night."
I created custom wedding pieces as well, a mini-me version of the bride's gown for her flower girl, coordinated dresses for four junior brides with boleros, and two bridesmaid dresses, all from the same fabric. These were intricate, detailed creations.
One of my most creative commissions was transforming a bride's wedding dress into a baby canopy carrychair cover for a baptism, completely one-of-a-kind. I was once asked to replicate a lab coat for a newborn. With only an image as a reference, I created a 0-3 months lab coat. My motto became: ‘If you can think it, I can make it!’
Once my children built their own paths, I had more time to dedicate to my passion. In the mid-2000s, I rebranded my business as ‘tHREDz’ and entered the motorcycling enthusiast world, where I discovered a niche market. Women were losing their femininity in biker fashion. I wasn't competing with major brands or safety wear; I was offering a softer look.
At the time, choices were limited to pink, boxy, boyish styles. I created vibrant, tailored looks by modifying T-shirts, adding lace to vests, patches to hats, or reshaping garments for a more flattering fit. My one-of-a-kind skullcap bandanas, do-rags, and scarves became popular commissioned pieces.
Even after breaking my ankle and during COVID, my sewing business thrived even from my bed. I set up a bed-top table workstation, calling it ‘The Axis’, the central point where my logic met the fabric. I cut hundreds of face masks. I sewed them together upstairs while my Aunt Rizzo came daily to help package and organize curbside pickups. In between orders, I picked up my crochet hook, making headbands, tuques, and cowl scarves. It was one of my busiest seasons.
Today, when I sit at The Axis, surrounded by fabric and thread, the steady hum of my nearly forty-year-old Janome beneath my hands, I understand something I didn’t as a child. I was never just making clothes. I was stitching courage into a girl who wasn’t allowed to touch the machine. I was solving the ‘Tetris Puzzle’ of life, turning scraps into independence. And somewhere, long ago, my father quietly tucked away a jean bag, saving proof that I had already begun. The machines changed, from Singer to Kenmore, to Janome, but the thread never did. I was creating at The Axis, where the line never broke. And neither did I.
