As a child, I would watch my mother patch up worn garments, sometimes joining in with clumsy attempts. These moments weren’t about creating something perfect, but rather about the shared experience. Each stitch she made was a gesture of love and attention, a quiet, enduring form of care. As an adopted child, the garments my mother mended for me took on a special significance. They became symbols of the unconditional love and acceptance my parents showed me. Mending, in its simplicity, holds a powerful message: that brokenness is not the end, but the beginning of something renewed.

To my parents: my art is my way of saying thank you, of recognizing the countless hours you spent ensuring that we had everything we needed.