That day, I almost didn't bring the flowers at all.
It was September 2024, and I was setting up at a small craft show as a sewing pattern designer. It wasn't a big event. The crowd was quiet, my table was small, and there was barely any space to properly display anything beyond my patterns.
So I didn't.
I simply placed the flowers on the floor, right in front of my table. Not as a display. Not as something carefully curated. Just… there.
And then something unexpected happened.
People bent down and picked them up.
At first, I was surprised. How did they even notice them there?
But they did.
By the end of the day, the basket was almost empty. All but one flower had found a new home.
Twenty Years of Fabric and Patterns
I've spent more than twenty years working as a sewing pattern designer.
Over that time, I've published five books with American publishers, co-authored five more, and had my work featured in craft magazines across the US, UK, and Canada. My life has been built quietly around fabric, thread, and the satisfaction of a pattern that finally works the way it should.
Somewhere along the way, I also designed corsage patterns. Looking back now, I realize flowers have been part of my work for much longer than I ever noticed.
They were always there. I just hadn't called them flowers yet.
A Simple Idea, and an Old Habit
It started with a simple question.
If I had been designing corsage patterns for years, what would happen if I added wire and actually shaped them into flowers? Could I make them? Could I sell them?
In the summer of 2024, I pulled out some wool felt I had at home and decided to try. Casually. Almost experimentally. Just to see what would happen.
But something in me shifted the moment I started.
That familiar habit took over — the one where I think, this looks interesting, and then suddenly find myself completely absorbed by it.
Of course, the first flower I chose was a peony. Not exactly the easiest place to begin.
It didn’t come out right.
So I adjusted the pattern. Made it again. Adjusted it again. And again.
I began to notice something small but fascinating: the slightest change in the curve of a petal completely changed the expression of the flower. The way it opened. The way it breathed.
I became obsessed with how each layer should be placed, how each petal should be shaped, how order itself could create softness.
Before I knew it, my desk was covered with failed peonies.
So much for “just trying it out.”
And yet, looking at that pile, I recognized something familiar.
This was exactly how I had worked for twenty years — refining, rebuilding, repeating until something finally felt right.
Maybe that’s why I fell into it so completely.
Even now, when I see a beautiful flower, my first thought isn’t just admiration.
It’s: How would I build that?
And once that question appears, I’m already somewhere else entirely.
For what it’s worth, I’m still making new peony patterns.
Why I Love Wool Felt Flowers
I’ve always loved flowers, but I never quite enjoyed the idea of buying them.
There was always a small moment of guilt when they began to fade — the quiet knowledge that something beautiful was already on its way to being thrown away.
Artificial flowers never felt like a real answer either. They looked like flowers, but they didn’t carry the same sense of life or presence.
So I started making my own.
Not to replace real flowers, but to create something that could hold a different kind of permanence.
Something that doesn’t ask to be discarded.
I hope these wool felt flowers can offer a small comfort to someone who feels the same way. A quiet presence in a room. A piece of beauty that stays.
These blooms carry a lot of my time, my attention, and my hands.
And I hope they stay with you gently, for a long time.
