Years ago, I was teaching a sewing class to brand-new seamstresses. It was an introductory class, and there were six women there. I gave my usual second-day-of-class pep talk, and then outlined instructions for the next project we would tackle together before sending them off to the cutting tables with their fabric to work independently while I circulated and offered individual help. It was a relaxed evening, and everyone was in good spirits and excited to try something new.
When all the other students got up and left the table, one woman remained. She sat with her hands in her lap, under the table, her head bowed low to look at them. She was very, very still. Now, I’m not terribly gifted at reading other people’s body language, but even I couldn’t miss that this was a woman exhibiting signs of distress.
I sat next to her and in my best cheerful, please-let-this-be-nothing-because-I-lack-skills-here tone, said, “What’s up?”
And she says, her voice extremely quiet and filled with tears, “It’s just that I’ve been trying for three years to have a baby and I can’t get pregnant, and I just can’t have this be one more thing I’m a failure at.”
That is heavy stuff. She was hurting, and her pain was very real and very deep. It wasn’t about sewing, but it was also about sewing. You know?