Mistakes were made

and pointed out!

Can you see the mistakes? Does it matter?

I’m willing to bet this has happened to many of us out there who use social media on any kind of semi-regular basis. You make a thing. A lovely thing, a useful thing, a thing you love or just kinda like, or maybe even hate like it cheated on you with your sister. And in the course of making this thing, there were several…missteps. Stumbles. Oopsies. MISTAKES. And so, you post about it because it was a thing you did and an experience you had and we share those semi-regularly on the grams and tocks and whatever. But GOD FORBID YOU POINT OUT ANY OF YOUR WHOOPSIE-DOODLES because inevitably someone, some well-meaning love-warrior of the interwebs, will pop up to remind you that you shouldn’t point out your mistakes because nobody would notice them if you didn’t shine a spotlight on them and putting yourself down is unhealthy and maybe you’re just fishing for compliments and also you should consider taking a class if your sewing sucks that hard.

Somewhere along the way in the last several years, we seemed to collectively decide that pointing out our own mistakes is unhealthy and pointing THAT out is kindness. I think this is, for the most part, wrong.

Part of my mission as The Bitchy Stitcher, besides making people spit tea on their computer screens, was encouraging my readers to get comfortable with their mistakes, maybe even embrace them, because mistakes are an integral part of learning and growth. In fact it was quilting which taught me that and while I know that’s not an original concept, my personal brand of perfectionism, instilled in me from childhood, didn’t allow for mistakes. Mistakes were shameful, a result of my personal failings, and if I couldn’t do something brilliantly at first go I probably shouldn’t do it at all. My first quilt started chipping away at that lifelong neurosis. I sewed two rows on upside down and didn’t notice until it had already been quilted and bound. The binding was an absolute shitshow of huge crooked stitches and other travesties. But it was still a quilt, made for my oldest child who loved and treasured it, and none of the mistakes made it less useful or less loved. My perfectionism had protected me from failure but it had also held me back from success. 

Writing The Bitchy Stitcher was me giving the finger to the way I was raised. Helpful hint: it will fuck a kid up to constantly hint to them that they are a genius (never say it outright because, for one thing, it’s technically a lie and for another, it would give them a “swelled head”) even as they prove over and over that they are no such thing. You cannot make it so because you want it. You cannot bully a child into being who you want, but you can damn well bully her into hating herself because she never will be.

For me, fucking up and fucking up publicly was glorious. I could make jokes about my ineptitude and then—miracle of miracles—TRY AGAIN. And after trying again and again as many times as I damn well wanted to, I actually became proficient at several things, all the while admitting that those things were hard and didn’t always turn out the way I intended. More, I had an audience who got it, who commiserated when something didn’t go well and who cheered me on as I got back on the proverbial horse. Well, most of them anyway. I could be messy. I could be me.

Though expressing frustration may seem like an obvious cry for help, I mostly wasn’t looking for advice. I found I liked working through things on my own. I’m a sucker for a good puzzle, and sometimes the puzzle is really just how to make your hands do what you tell them to. In other words, it just takes practice. And sure, sometimes a handy tip makes all the difference, but not always, and well, some of us are just pathologically independent. I’ve always said I’m like a stubborn toddler when it comes to unsolicited advice: my immediate reaction is NO! I DO IT MYSELF! Which I admit is not necessarily super healthy, but it does indicate that when I do ask for advice you know I mean it.

Making mistakes and letting others see them is how we learn the ins and out of that fun concept: vulnerability. We want to be able to be our truest selves with our families, friends, and partners, and because for every single person on earth our truest self is flawed, showing these flaws to others leaves us open to harm: ridicule, remonstration, rejection. When we know we are accepted and loved even though we are flawed, we learn how to do the same for others, and thus we learn empathy and compassion. And the more we receive empathy and compassion the more capable we are of giving it. But the relationships we form with people online are not generally intimate ones and even if intimacy exists IRL, online interactions are not geared for deep, intimate, vulnerable conversations. Added to that, the online world for crafters is heavily visual. We post pictures of what we have done or are doing and while we say something, it’s generally not a 1000-word essay. (Unless you’re me.) Even if the proverb says they’re worth 1000 words, pictures don’t tell a full story, and very often neither do we when we caption them.

I know it can be annoying to see someone pointing out mistakes, seemingly putting themselves down while also showing off something that they must be at least a little proud of since they’re, you know, showing it. If you’ve ever had a Debbie Downer in your life (“Well, it’s official: I can’t make quilts.”), or someone with a constant, unfillable need for validation, it can even be maddening. The contradiction of showing off and being self-deprecating can seem disingenuous—do you want sympathy or praise or both? And all these reactions can make it very, very tempting to assume we know better what someone actually needs versus what they say or imply they want. And just as tempting to give it to them.

But what if we viewed these kinds of posts as someone practicing vulnerability, someone working through how to accept their own imperfection? In that case, I think the last thing they would benefit from is a “you shouldn’t” or a “you don’t need to” regarding their display/description of their mistakes, because that’s basically pointing out yet another major error: the error of putting something out in the world and trying to learn how to be comfortable with it. Think about how often someone’s insecurities are rooted in how they were raised. Maybe taking on the role of chastiser—even a gentle one—could hit far too close to home. 

I’m not suggesting that everyone out there who points out their mistakes on social media is exactly like me, but I am suggesting that for the most part you just can’t know. But I can tell you as someone whose practice of online vulnerability has been a crucial part of my path toward self-acceptance, there is a response that works in just about any iteration of mistake-displaying behavior, whether innocent or pathological or somewhere in between. A response as potent as it is pithy:

“Great job! Keep going!”

Just a moment of validation and encouragement. Isn’t that all any of us are really looking for when we throw our creations out there to be seen? Even if we write an essay outlining the various ways in which our creation defies laws of design, construction, morality, and physics—in other words, even if we overcompensate, as many of us learned to do as a coping or defense mechanism—all we really need is just a little validation and encouragement. “Ya did good - can’t wait to see more!” Is it deep? No, but neither is an Instagram comment section. And believe me, if you hear it enough times, it does start to sink in.

We can’t fix everyone, and we shouldn’t try. But we can be a glorious chorus of cheerleaders, and isn’t that, if nothing else, more fun? To me, the joy of making lies in bringing things into being that are beautiful and inherently imperfect at the same time. Just as we are all beautiful and inherently imperfect at the same time. And if someone else isn’t quite there yet? That’s okay! Just give ‘em time.

And a little encouragement.