I’ve been thinking a lot this week about comparison after what was just a throw away comment during a workshop. But it really hit home.
Comparison creeps in quietly, doesn’t it? You’re halfway through a project. The hem isn’t quite hanging straight. The collar feels a little bulky. There’s a faint drag line across the front of your trousers and you’re not entirely sure why it’s there. You step away to make a cup of tea, scroll for a few minutes, and there it is - someone else’s beautifully finished garment. Crisp. Pressed. Photographed in perfect light.
And suddenly you’re wondering if you’re just… not very good at this.
Comparison rarely arrives with drama. It simply settles beside you and whispers that everyone else has understood something you haven’t. That they’re faster. More capable. Further ahead.
But sewing was never meant to be something we keep up with. We’re not in our own version of the Sewing Bee with competition and time constraints. It isn’t a race, and it certainly isn’t a performance. Yet it can begin to feel like one. We see finished makes, styled and polished. We see the “ta-da” moment. What we don’t see are the unpicked seams, the second - or even third toiles, the evenings spent quietly puzzling over a sleeve that refuses to behave.
When you’re in the middle of your own process with your table scattered with pins, seams half pressed, pattern pieces annotated and re-annotated, it can feel as though you’re the only one still figuring things out.
You’re not.
That in-between space, the slightly messy middle, is where understanding deepens. It’s where your eye sharpens and your hands learn to respond rather than react.
In the studio, I often hear the phrase, “It’s just not sitting right.” It’s such a thoughtful thing to notice. And noticing is progress. There was a time when you wouldn’t have seen it. You would have stitched, pressed and moved on. Now you pause. You observe. You sense that something could be better.
Comparison tries to turn that awareness into criticism. It suggests that if you were truly “good,” you wouldn’t have these moments of doubt.
But real skill isn’t the absence of uncertainty. It’s the ability to stay with it.
When you begin to understand what your machine is doing, something shifts. An uneven stitch becomes information about tension or thread path rather than evidence of clumsiness. A twisting trouser leg becomes a conversation about grainline and balance rather than a judgement about your body. A neckline that won’t sit flat invites curiosity about shape and support.
Understanding changes the emotional tone of sewing. The sharp edge of frustration softens into investigation. Instead of thinking, Why can’t I do this properly? you begin to ask, What is happening here?
And that question is powerful.
There’s also a persistent myth that some people are simply “naturals.” That they instinctively know how to draft, fit and sew without effort. In truth, what you’re seeing is experience layered so thoroughly that it looks effortless. Years of making. Years of adjusting. Years of mistakes quietly absorbed and understood.
I’ve been teaching for nearly three decades, and I can tell you with certainty that confidence grows from foundations. It grows from understanding how fabric behaves, how fit interacts with posture and movement, how small adjustments ripple through an entire garment.
It rarely grows from rushing.
There is something quietly radical about choosing depth over speed. Deciding that one well-fitted pair of trousers is worth more than five hurried makes that never quite feel right. About unpicking a seam not because you are ashamed, but because you are curious.
Sewing, at its best, is a conversation. Between you and the cloth. Between you and the pattern. Between you and your own body. Conversations require listening. They require time.
If a sleeve feels tight, it is telling you something. If a hem drops unevenly, it is responding to fibre and gravity. If a waistband twists, there is a reason. When you approach these moments with curiosity rather than comparison, the whole experience steadies.
You stop measuring yourself against someone else’s finished photograph. You begin to build trust in your own judgement.
And that steadiness matters far more than speed.
This is exactly why our workshops are structured the way they are. They aren’t about pushing you to produce more garments. They aren’t about ticking off projects for the sake of it. They’re about helping you feel grounded at the machine.
We slow things down. We look closely at what’s actually happening when a seam ripples or a collar twists. We talk about why a pocket pulls and how fabric choice influences outcome. There is space to ask “Why?” without feeling foolish. Space to unpick without embarrassment. Space to build understanding properly.
Because once you understand what’s happening underneath, the pressure to keep up begins to dissolve.
You realise you’re not behind. You’re learning. And learning has its own rhythm.
If comparison has been whispering in your ear this week, I want to gently remind you that you don’t have to match anyone else’s pace. You don’t have to produce a perfectly pressed, photograph-ready garment every time you sit down to sew.
You are allowed to be in the middle. You are allowed to take your time. You are allowed to choose understanding over urgency.
When you do, everything softens. The shoulders drop. The breath deepens. The work steadies.
And sewing becomes what it was always meant to be. Not a race to keep up, but a quiet, satisfying conversation between your hands and the cloth.
Jules x