In 2020, my husband and I decided to take the biggest leap of our lives and move to Japan. We had no family or friends here, no job offers and no language skills. The only connection we had was that my husband studied in Tokyo more than 20 years earlier.
With the weight of the move on my shoulders, I needed something that would help bring calm and peace to my life. That’s how I ended up in online sashiko classes led by Kazue Yoshikawa of Sashiko Lab, an atelier in Kyoto.
A traditional embroidery technique dating to the Edo Period (1603-1868), sashiko — literally “little stabs” — began as a way for working-class people to reinforce worn clothing with thousands of small stitches.
I first encountered sashiko in March 2019 at Purl Soho, a yarn store in New York. My instructor, Atsushi Futatsuya of Upcycle Stitches, told us that if you stitch with purpose and appreciation for both fabric and process, then it is sashiko. That openness felt liberating.
At the time, I was a proud Manhattanite climbing the career ladder and keeping a busy social calendar — even into the pandemic. But each time I joined my online sashiko class, I had to slow down. Only then did I realize how much I needed that pause.
Women from across the Americas, Australia and Asia joined the class. We stitched and chatted, sharing stories about crafting and coping with uncertainty. We found calm in the noise and beauty in our projects, staying together from start to finish.
This community taught me that sashiko isn’t about the end result or perfection. Rather, it’s what we learn about the practice — and about ourselves.
Rhythm and touch
Sashiko has its roots in premodern Japan, when cotton and durable textiles were scarce. Families extended the life of garments by layering fabric and strengthening it with thread each winter. Over time, the practice evolved from simply mending to decoration.
The stitching itself is sashiko; the mended product is called boro. I mostly practice decorative sashiko, turning patterns into functional things like table runners or tote bags. From time to time, I mend torn fabric with sashiko stitches to create boro.
Traditionally, sashiko used white thread on indigo fabric. The twisted thread is stronger than embroidery floss, and the needle’s larger eye accommodates it. A small round thimble helps push the needle through layers of fabric. These simple tools, unchanged for centuries, make the practice very accessible.
Over time, threads, fabrics and patterns grew more colorful, and sashiko took on new purposes beyond mending. With running stitches alone, a wide variety of patterns can emerge.
Most of the designs focus on natural elements through geometric shapes. Though simple, they all carry meaning. For example, there is the hexagonal tortoise shell (kikkō) for longevity, waves (seigaiha) for serenity and the hemp leaf (asanoha) for growth. A small patch of any of these patterns may look plain, but when repeated, the design gains depth and beauty.
Sashiko is a meditative practice rooted in rhythm and touch. There’s something rejuvenating about moving the needle through fabric by way of a thousand little stitches the size of grains of rice.
The back-and-forth movement — a thimble and needle in my right hand, fabric in my left — forms a partnership, moving in sync toward a goal. The beauty lies in the slowness, in spending time with each stitch and valuing the journey as much as the result.
Process over outcome
From the beginning, sashiko felt welcoming, flexible and deeply personal. That may be why I returned to it during the pandemic, when everything felt stifling. Not only did it allow me to find peace in an uncertain world, it brought me a sense of clarity that maybe our perfect Manhattan lives weren’t so perfect after all — and that we were ready for a change.
Almost four years later, I’m continuing my sashiko journey and have set up a crafting nook in our central Tokyo home. My husband and I have taken our biggest leap yet, welcoming our daughter, Mei, in 2023.
Now more than ever, sashiko grounds me as a working mom with a toddler. I dream of sharing the practice with Mei someday, a hobby to help us find stillness in the world’s largest city.
The process matters more than the outcome — I think about this often as both a mother and an immigrant in Japan. I see parents rushing to shuffle kids from point A to point B, missing the quiet moments of just spending time together. Sashiko reminds me that it’s OK to slow down and just be.
I also see how process and time shape traditional practices here. Japan prizes how things are done — from bonsai and ikebana to making onigiri (rice balls) or even fixing a pothole.
People take great pride in what they create. It’s not always perfect, but it reflects effort and individuality. In that sense, my sashiko mirrors everyday life in Japan.
One of my first trips after moving here was to Kyoto, where I met Yoshikawa, the instructor of my online sashiko class. We visited her favorite crafting shops and I learned more about how she got into the practice herself.
I spent the day buying thread, needles and fabrics — partly to prove I was serious, and partly to quiet my own fears of cultural appropriation. I later realized this wasn’t what sashiko was about. I didn’t need the best materials or tools, I just needed to keep practicing and appreciate the time spent doing it.
As a Chinese Canadian immigrant in Japan, six years into my sashiko journey, I’ve come to believe that the process is like handwriting. Though pace, technique and style may differ, everyone can engage their creativity to make something distinctive and beautiful.
In the end, sashiko reminds me that beauty grows from repetition and imperfection. From humble, practical origins, it has become an art form.
When I pick up the needle and thread, time slips away. With each push and pull, I see the stitches gather into lines, the lines into patterns and the slow formation of something full of beauty and meaning. From nothing, I’ve created something.
With your current subscription plan you can comment on stories. However, before writing your first comment, please create a display name in the Profile section of your subscriber account page.