I’ve realized over time that when I say I like making things, I don’t really mean it in the way people usually interpret it.
It’s not about the idea that anything can be handmade if you have the right tools or enough patience. And it’s not about the idea that handmade things are automatically more meaningful to the person receiving them. Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t. A lot of effort can go unnoticed, and that's just the reality of it.
That has never really been the point for me.
What I'm drawn to is something more specific: the process of taking an idea that only exists in my head and seeing it all the way through to something real. Not just imagining it, not just finding something similar, but actually building it, often from scratch. Making decisions along the way, adjusting when something feels off, and ending up with something that feels complete because I followed it through from beginning to end.
That process has shown up in different ways over the years.
When I was younger, it looked like mix CDs. I would build them for specific people. It was not just about picking songs, but thinking through the order, the lyrics and connections between the songs, and what would resonate with the recipient. Then I'd work on the cover, cutting and assembling pieces until it felt like it matched what was inside. Bright neon colors for an 80s mix. Starburst wrappers to accompany candy pop. One cover had a small pocket glued onto the front with a dollar bill tucked inside because I thought George Washington really pulled the whole thing together (as a Canadian teen, dollar bills felt like a novelty at the time).
In later years, the process of crafting showed up in something much bigger. When I was planning my wedding, I decided to make the save the dates, invitations, and stationery myself. It was not because I could not find something nice. It was because nothing I found matched what I had in mind closely enough to commit to it.
So I wrangled all my crafty bridesmaids and we made them. And we made the centerpieces. And the place cards. And the wedding favors. And stained the wood for the Welcome sign before assembling it and lining and realigning the vinyl lettering. You get it. At some point it becomes less about crafting and more about group endurance.
For the save the dates, I included Polaroid-style photos of my better half and I. They were real moments, printed and attached by hand. I chose them based on who they were going to. Some people got something playful, others got something more tame, and some got photos that only they would really understand. It added time, but it also meant that each one felt intentional and from the heart.
That same way of thinking carries into everything I make now. Cards, ornaments, cake toppers, birthday sweets, and details for my kids’ parties. It is not about whether I *can* make something. It is about whether I want to take the time to see an idea through.
When you make something from conception to delivery, you remove a lot of the noise. You’re not scrolling through endless options, comparing prices, wondering if something is worth it, or settling for something that’s “close enough.” You already know what you’re aiming for, and every step brings you closer to it.
When it is done, there is a kind of clarity in it. It might not be perfect, and it might not be the most polished version of that idea, but it exists the way I meant it to.
Most of the time, that is enough for me. And every so often, there’s a moment that goes a bit further. You’ll see that someone kept something you made—a card tucked away, a small detail that wasn’t thrown out, something that lasted longer than it needed to. Not because it was expensive or impressive, but because it held onto a moment in time.
So I call you to craft, to create for the sake of creating, and to pass along items that have a chance of enduring because of the meaning they're tied to.
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