The Saddest Part of My Job (That No One Talks About)

Owning a quilt shop is a beautiful thing.

It’s creativity. It’s color. It’s laughter over fabric pulls that went completely off plan. It’s watching someone sew their very first straight line like they just discovered magic.

But there’s a part of this job…that no one really talks about.

This isn’t the first time I’ve received news like this. Over the years, there have been a few Sew Magarbo friends we’ve quietly had to say goodbye to.Some of them… much closer than this one.

But today… this one stirred something in me.

It made me realize this is a part of the journey no one really talks about.

Today, I heard about the passing of another Sew Magarbo friend.

And yes, I say friend very intentionally.

She wasn’t a quilter.She wasn’t a garment sewist.

She was someone who simply wanted to learn. To explore. To add sewing to her little collection of life skills. To sit in a room full of fabric and possibility and say, “I think I can do this.”

Those are my people.

The ones who come in not because they have to… but because it brings them joy.The ones who sign up for a class just to try something new.The ones who trust us with their grandkids’ first stitches.The ones who support this little creative home simply by showing up.

You don’t realize it at first, but over time… they become part of your life.

You notice when they haven’t come in for a while.You remember the project they struggled with—and then finally finished.You know how they take their coffee.You celebrate their little wins.

And then one day…you hear they’re gone.

No announcement.No goodbye.

Just a quiet absence where a familiar face used to be.

That’s the part no one prepares you for as a shop owner.

Because this isn’t just retail.

It’s not just classes.

It’s people.

It’s connection. It’s shared moments stitched together over time.

And when one of those threads is suddenly gone… you feel it.

Deeply.

So today, I’m sitting with gratitude.

For every Sew Magarbo friend who has walked through our doors.

For every story shared across a cutting table.

For every “I’ll try” that turned into “I made this.”

And for her…thank you for choosing to spend your time with us.

You mattered here.

More than you probably ever knew.