Lessons from a Needle and Thread

What the Guilford Mask Project taught me – about care, creativity, and how to keep showing up.

Start small. Start anyway.

The first masks were made from fabric I had at home. Scraps from past projects, bits of elastic I found in an old drawer. I wasn’t thinking about impact. I just knew someone needed a mask.

That’s the thing about urgency. It doesn’t wait for confidence. It taught me that starting small isn’t a flaw. It’s a strength. Scale comes later. What matters first is showing up when it counts, even when you’re not sure how far you’ll go.

Care is a verb.

It’s one thing to say you care. It’s another to spend hours ironing seams and triple-checking fit because you want someone to feel safe.

Care isn’t abstract. It’s action. It’s sending a box to a refugee camp you’ll never see. It’s researching speech-friendly mask designs at 1 a.m. because a teacher asked for help. It’s choosing softness, showing up consistently, and following through.

Most of the time, the people you’re helping won’t know your name. But they’ll know someone cared. And that’s enough.

You don’t need permission to make something useful.

I didn’t work in healthcare. I wasn’t trained in public health or logistics. But I had time, a sewing machine, and a reason to act.

So I figured it out. Pattern by pattern, call by call, one donation at a time. That experience taught me this: waiting for approval can be a barrier to progress. Impact doesn’t need a title. It just needs someone willing to act.

Design is not decoration. It is empathy in motion.

We began by focusing on what people needed most—not how things looked, but how they worked. Why were ear loops hurting? Why did some kids refuse to wear their masks? What did comfort look like in a hospital waiting room?

The best designs weren’t flashy. They were thoughtful.
Filter pockets. Adjustable ties. Clear windows.

Real design isn’t about making something pretty. It’s about making something matter.

Ask questions. Change things. Do it again.

The original designs didn’t always work. Some masks were too big. Some ties came loose. One clinic needed waterproof fabric we hadn’t used before.

Instead of getting discouraged, I learned to get curious.
What went wrong? What could we do better?

Design, like service, is iterative. You’re not supposed to get it right the first time. You’re supposed to care enough to keep improving.

You don’t do this alone. Even when it feels like you are.

There were nights I was the only one sewing, packaging, answering emails. It felt isolating at times. But this wasn’t a solo story.

Ten volunteers joined. Friends shared materials. Organizations opened their doors. We became a web, interconnected by a common goal.

That’s what I learned. Movements aren’t always loud. Sometimes they’re quiet, people in different places, using different tools, all working toward the same goal. And that’s enough.

Flexibility makes things last.

We started with masks. Then came scrub caps. Then chemo caps. Then reusable menstrual kits. The more we listened, the more needs surfaced, and the more we adapted.

We created solutions for speech therapy programs, rural health clinics, and shelters serving displaced families. Each request taught me to let go of rigid plans and instead ask, What do you need?

That openness to shift, to listen, to try again is what kept the project going. It’s what keeps everything going.

Give it structure. But don’t force it to be perfect.

At one point I tried to organize the project like a company. Tracking hours, managing volunteers, streamlining requests. It helped. But it also reminded me this wasn’t about optimization. It was about care.

Some things can’t be templated. Some actions are meant to be a little messy. What mattered most was staying grounded in our mission, not in how polished it looked but in how personal it felt.

The best projects don’t end. They evolve.

The PPE crisis eventually slowed. But the needs didn’t.
We still get requests for menstrual kits. Teachers still ask for extra masks.

The Guilford Mask Project taught me that a project doesn’t need to be trending to be important. It doesn’t need a relaunch or a spotlight to stay alive.

If the mission still matters, you find new ways to carry it forward, even if it looks different now.

And finally, you are allowed to care deeply.

In a world that moves fast and rewards output, this project reminded me that quiet care is its own kind of power.

Every stitch, every conversation, every late-night redesign was rooted in something simple and human. The belief that people deserve to be protected, to be thought of, to be remembered.

We didn’t just make masks.

We made care visible.