Where the Light Began

My original spark was quiet, tended by my mum in those early years. But of course, growing up doesn’t end the story. We’re shaped and reshaped by the women we meet along the road: the ones who encourage us, challenge us, steady us, and sometimes simply walk beside us until we find our way again.

When I think about “light” now, I think about them.

Some women arrived in my life at exactly the right moment — not because everything was perfect, but because they carried something bright and steady with them. A way of listening without judgement. A way of speaking truth kindly. A way of holding space for others that felt like a warm lamp on a doorstep.

Others didn’t set out to teach me anything, but they did anyway.
A conversation that shifted something inside me.
A moment of honesty that helped me breathe again.
A shared project that reminded me I wasn’t alone.
A friendship that proved light isn’t lost when shared — it multiplies.

These women shaped the maker, the teacher, and the human I’ve become. And in many ways, they prepared me for the work I now do with Creative Health Camden: using textiles as a gentle, grounding tool for people who need space, connection, or simply a place to exhale for a little while.

There is a kind of magic that happens when people make things with their hands.
Threads loosen. Stories surface.
People who arrived tense or unsure begin to settle.
Light appears in places they thought had gone dim.

Sometimes it’s in the softness of someone’s voice when they realise they can make something beautiful after all.
Sometimes it’s in the laughter that bubbles up unexpectedly.
Sometimes it’s in the quiet — that moment where everyone is stitching or knitting or piecing fabric together and the room feels gentler than it did before.

The kind of sparkle I talked about in my last blog — the beads that catch the light — feels like a good metaphor for this work. Each person brings something small, something personal, something bright. And when you put all those tiny sparks together, the whole room shimmers.

I don’t think light has to be grand to matter.
It just has to be shared.

The older I get, the more grateful I am for the women who shared theirs with me — my mum, yes, but also the friends, colleagues, mentors, and makers who held up lamps when the path went dim. They didn’t have to. They simply chose to.

Maybe that’s what light really is:

a choice to notice, a choice to care, a choice to shine gently where someone else needs it.

This December, I’m holding onto that truth.
And as I continue knitting small beads into my stitches — tiny sparks, tiny reminders — I’m thinking about how we all carry light forward, in our own way.
Sometimes through craft.
Sometimes through kindness.
Sometimes through just showing up.

Light isn’t something we keep.
It’s something we pass on.

Nessa