The large sliding doors part way as I come through, leaving the rest of the world behind me. As the tiled floor clicks underneath my pointed toe heels, I am warmed by the flickering pale blue light above me. Visions of color and pattern flash by, while my arms are drawn to touch, to feel. People walk in past me, all with the glimmer of a unique future project in their eye. I gaze across the mountains of machinery and past the rivers of thread flowing throughout the store. I tear my way through as I enter the forest of fabric ahead of me, my second home.

The bolts on the wall are messy and nonuniform from previous hands gliding over top, desperately trying to search. I do the same, as I have done a million times before, and join in the search for the perfect mix of fibers. The knits and silks are soft against my palm, while the cotton and denim are stiff to the touch. Creations of all types are themselves trapped in my sketchbook, waiting to be set free. Since the age of six, my brain cells have been rewired this way, with passion and design flowing through my veins before it shoots out of my fingertips.

My homemade dress chases after my ankles as it flows through the aisles, my eyes quickly scanning. I gravitate towards a soft matte red jersey knit bolt, and I feel home. There are many supportive threads holding the cloth together, giving it strength. I see visions of my mom and I staying up late every Thursday night to watch Project Runway, year after year while I grew up slowly in the background. I can hear the hammer and nails as my dad puts together my first mannequin. My mannequin was constantly changing into new custom outfits, as it stood proudly next to my well-loved sewing machine.

My eyes catch the view of cheetah print folded on the shelf and immediately I think of the many little kids who have told me that is their favorite fabric to use. They come to me for advice, assistance, and friendship while they are in sewing class after school. Having the ability to help young children with their passion of becoming a fashion designer is the best job I could ever imagine. I give the best guidance I can, as a self-taught sewing addict since childhood.

Right before I am ready to leave, I glance behind me at the row of expensive the silks. I have never used such an expensive and refined fabric, but in them I see hope. From my past to my present I have improved beyond my wildest belief. My comfort level has risen to one of a proud seamstress, when only years ago I was a young novice newly exploring the unfamiliar territory. I see hope for my future fashion career ahead of me, and maybe one day I’ll reach for those silks and make something great.

The scissors glide and slice open the seams of the fabric, they are neatly folded and placed into a bag. A quick thank you to my usual cashier, and I’m off. I take them home and begin to prepare. I am ready to create again.