In general, I am extremely picky about the look and fit of my clothes. It’s part of what drew me to sewing in the first place – a deep desire to have clothes that were perfectly suited to me. If I couldn’t buy them, I could make them. I also dislike visible wear in my clothes; I’ve never liked ripped jeans or tights and I dislike the inevitable fading or pilling that fabrics get. I want things to fit well, look good and stay that way. I’ve also spent an awful lot of time drilling into my style preferences so that the clothes that I do make are well-made, comfortable and slot neatly into my personal style.

However, there are always the few items that fall outside the norm – that are stained and ripped and completely outside my style choices and yet, still get worn. I have one pair of particularly ratty merino thermals that are absolutely the worst (best?) example of this. They were plagued with either a weird fabric defect down one leg or some washing machine issue that only tore up one side of the pants (roughly two wears in). In disgust, I refused to do anything with them and continued to wear them as is – after all, they are just a base layer! Who cares if they have a couple of holes? No one is seeing them but me!

Unfortunately, one can really only ignore this for so long. Turns out, holes in merino fabric suffer the same issues as holes in stockings – they run. Admittedly, they run much slower than stockings do but after years of ignoring the problem, it’s become a little atrocious. Big sections of the left leg were more hole than fabric.

They were really getting Past It.

Thankfully for the continued life of these pants, I recently found myself in a project lull. I had just finished the witchy sweater of my dreams, a knitting project that had consumed my waking (and dreaming) thoughts for the past two months as I knit and reknit sections to get my perfect fit. As I lovingly added it to my box of sweaters I suddenly realised that I didn’t need to make anymore.

I was at sweater capacity.

It felt bittersweet to tuck that beautiful sweater into its home and realise that it was going to be the last one for while. I picked up knitting when I moved to Tasmania 3 years ago. Fuelled by too much time and not enough friends, I dove into this headfirst into this hobby, completely captivated by the ability to add something new to my arsenal of skills (and wardrobe). I had sewn for years and years – the evidence was littered through my closet. But this, this was something new – a whole new DIY wardrobe section opened up to me when I picked up those needles.

That is not to say all my sweaters are hand knit. In reality, I’ve made myself 2 vests, 1 cardigan and 4 sweaters over the past few years and I own many, many more than that. But each of my beloved handknits were chosen with a specific purpose in mind – to fill the gaps in my existing wardrobe. And now those gaps are filled. My new, lovingly handknit sweaters sit there in my sweater basket alongside fast fashion sweaters I bought years ago, thrifted cardigans from op-shops, and a particularly beloved 80s polar fleece I inherited from my mother’s friend. I don’t need anything else at the moment. Perhaps I could get rid of some of my older items – I’d certainly be able to replace many of them with much higher quality versions if I made them myself. Or perhaps I could continue to accumulate – watch my sweater basket become more and more difficult to shove under the bed each time I look for that sweater “that I KNOW is in there somewhere”.

Neither of those options felt right to me.

Instead, when evening rolled around and me and my partner gleefully pressed play on the next episode of Outlander, I didn’t have a knitting project in hand. I sat on the couch and alternated between twiddling my thumbs, cracking my knuckles and playing a colour matching game on my phone. I felt antsy. I felt distracted. I missed doing something with my hands. I missed my knitting.

This also didn’t feel right to me. Why should I deprive myself of a hobby that brings me so much joy? Why should I have to stop my evening TV crafting just because I don’t need to make anything else? That’s not fair. But equally, so much of my craft is driven by my values around sustainability – I feel very strongly that it is a more sustainable and ethical choice to make one high quality garment that fits my exact purpose than buying three lower quality items that each fit one-third of the brief. Continuing to churn out items purely because I like the act of making felt so incongruous with these values. How do you reconcile the desire to create new things with the desire to care for the things you have?

It was at this point I found my merino leggings. My ratty, holey merino leggings that were absolutely and definitely getting to Past It stage. And guess what?

I felt inspired! I felt reinvigorated! This was something I could do that fit both boxes! I could fix these! I could make and create and learn something new and most important, KEEP MY HANDS BUSY.

I had never hand darned anything in my life. I’ve been using a sewing machine since I was about 8 and so anything that could be machine sewed was and anything that couldn’t, I didn’t worry about. (You can see how the pants got ignored for as long as they did). But I could learn. We already had a darning mushroom and a Speedweve and I’ve seen plenty of reels on instagram about darning – how hard could it be? In a way, it was a blessing that the pants were as far gone as they were; save for cutting more holes in them, there was nothing I could have done to that would have made them worse.

It’s been more enjoyable than I could have imagined. I’ve never enjoyed hand-sewing, largely due to the inefficiency of it (why bother when you can machine sew it in one eighth of the time), but something about this process helped me switch off the outcome-driven part of my brain and tap into the process-driven part instead. Perhaps because it is a time-filler and thus not dependent on reaching an outcome or perhaps because it’s done in lots of little segments, meaning I am constantly starting and finishing sections. Perhaps it’s the accompanying episodes of Outlander (which really adds to the rustic vibe of the activity) or the satisfaction of using up all the “almost finished” spools of thread. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that I’m extending the life of a rather expensive item of clothing and making it look better at the same time. Perhaps it’s a combination of all of these things and more. Either way, it’s immensely satisfying to sit and stitch and see my skills develop and also know that I’m embodying my values around crafting even more strongly than ever before.

I know that many people turn to sewing as a way to escape the rat-race of fashion and I truly think that is such a fantastic reason. I think learning to sew your own clothes (at any skill level) gives you a deeper understanding about the fashion industry, the corners that the fast fashion industry cuts to provide the price point that it does, and a better knowledge of your own style. It’s not until you have the freedom to choose the style, cut and colour of a garment that you really start to dial in to what you like, instead of just what is available. I also realise that there is a learning curve involved in learning a new skill – inevitably there will be some wastage as you develop skills, practice techniques and figure out no matter how good it looks on the majority of sewing instagram, some styles are just not for you.

But I also think there is a balance to be found when picking up a hobby that at its core, continues to add more stuff to the world. This isn’t gardening, where the fruits of your labour quite literally have a shelf life. Once you’ve made something, whether it be a skirt or a shirt or something else, it will continue to exist, regardless of whether you want it or not. I’m aware this is a rather pessimistic way of looking at a hobby and I certainly have no desire to tell people there is a “right” and “wrong” way to engage with their hobby. But, I do believe it is something people should be consciously aware of. In general, it seems that home sewists get a hall pass from thinking about sustainability in this way because the whole hobby gets greenwashed under the banner of *slow fashion*. To me, this feels immensely unfair and very wrong.

I don’t really have a solution, and I don’t actually think there is a neat, one-size-fits-all solution. It’s a values based exercise – at the end of the day, if you know that the decisions you have made in your crafting process to have been true to your values and beliefs, then I think that’s enough. It’s a hobby – I don’t think anyone should have the right to dictate how you engage with pastimes that bring you joy. For me, I will continue to find new crafts and new experiences to fill my time so that I still feel like I am learning and creating in a way that doesn’t create excess waste or superfluous garments AND I will make more of an effort to mend my clothes before they get this bad.

I think that continuing to churn out item after item without consideration for how often you will wear it or whether it will fit in with your wardrobe is a bit like the holes in my merino leggings. In the beginning, it doesn’t matter – it’s a base layer / it’s *slow fashion* but at some point you end up with a pair of expensive leggings that are more holes than fabric / a sweater drawer that won’t close and a closet full of unworn (but very cool) clothes.