It was a cold evening in early December, and I was in a hurry. Wintertime Helsinki, covered in fresh piles of powdery snow, with a thin but malicious layer of ice beneath, made the people surrounding me step a bit more cautious. But not me, because my hand was trustingly wrapped around my mother’s arm.

I lifted my chin up to the moonlit sky and tried to separate the stars from the thick horde of snowflakes. I had been patiently waiting for this day since the start of the school year, anticipating to wear my midnight blue dress for the annual Finnish Independence Day ball, held for all fifth graders of Helsinki each year. A floor-length evening gown made of satin and embroidered organza.

My thin arms and featherweight frame, that sharp pair of collarbones undesirably intensified—would make me look as if when lifting up my arms and reaching for the clouds, a sudden gust of wind could blow me away. The ordinary, everyday clothes I wore to school were usually loose—whenever they started to fit, I had already outgrown them.

But this dress did fit. It was weeks of precise work and fittings after school and on weekends that made it fit in a way that was effortless and graceful. But above all, what made this dress so special, was that it was sewn for me by my own mother, and I now got to wear it for the first ball of my life.

It wasn't, though, the first dress that she had made for me. Nor would it be the last. My mother has lovingly sewn me outfits for the most memorable moments of my life—as well as for the most uneventful days, that then turned into a little less ordinary.

Growing up, seeing my mother sit by the kitchen table, with her eyes pinned on the rapid needle movements on one of her two sewing machines, was a common sight. Her hands moved briskly, aligning and pulling the fabric at the beat of her foot that sat sturdy on the pedal. There were pieces of threads and fabrics all over the place, and an occasional needle. Her maneuvers were agile, but her work, precise.

For a short time in my childhood, my mother worked in a large fabric store, just out of the city’s fast-paced ambiance. My father would sometimes take me or my brother with him to pick her up after work. We would walk inside the store, and I'd be prancing right behind my father, stopping at times to admire and touch the fabrics.

We usually arrived a bit too early and sat down at the store's cafe, waiting for my mother’s shift to be over. Somehow my fingers always ended up pointing at the counter, precisely at the jelly doughnuts with a thick, pink sugar glaze on them. They weren’t particularly cheap, but I can't recall my father ever telling me ”no”.

My mother’s earliest sewing memory dates back to the 70s, when she was living in a country house with her parents and three sisters, surrounded by the beautiful Estonian countryside. “Your grandmother was going to town one day, and I asked her for a doll. I was around five years old at the time, and trips to town weren’t daily. Nor did I usually ask for anything—but that one time I asked, she did return home with a doll in her hands. I was delighted, of course, but not entirely pleased with its dress—so I decided to sew a new one. But once it came time to put the new design back on the doll, it didn’t fit. I had sewn the new neckline so small, that it didn’t fit over the doll’s head anymore.”

Nevertheless, that little obstacle didn't mark the end to her interest. Instead, it sparked a lifelong love and devotion for a hobby that has dressed me in her homemade clothes ever since I was a little lady—and clothes that definitely fit over my head.

My mother had a vast collection of sewing magazines in our home that I would sometimes admire as a child. My all-time favorites from the broad variety of different styles and seasons, were two booklets showcasing the bridal fashions from Paris and Milan. With my childhood friend, we would leaf through the pages over and over again. For us, these two magazines were otherworldly and something sensational that we were yet to witness with our bare eyes. The happy, placid brides, with their delicate jewelry and bridal masterpieces, smiling in the ethereal gardens and castles of France and Italy.

Then there was the men’s bridal fashion. Suave grooms with their strong jawlines and combed-back hair, dressed in the finest of suits and tuxedos, and smoking thick cigars. I knew nothing of that life, but it didn’t stop me from dreaming, that one day I would grow up to be a woman like that and marry that sharp, eye-catching gentleman.

We would shuffle through the pages with my friend, and pick one dress and one husband. Truth is, we could never pick just one. The dresses were so beautiful, that every time our conclusion was that we would either have to change dresses every few hours, or marry several men.

My mother continued with her sewing pursuits, and I would become more fascinated and engaged with the designing process. When I was in high school, my mother took me to a fabric store, after discussing my dress for the high school senior ball that year. Instead of buying a dress, she suggested sewing one herself. I never doubted her abilities—maybe because my knowledge of sewing wasn’t yet profound enough—instead, it was the time and effort that she was willing to put into that dress that left me speechless.

I ended up drawing her a dress, and I pictured it in the shades of light peach. From the broad range of elegant satin and lustrous organza in every color one could desire, we found the perfect ones. It was a bright, luminous color warm as honey, and within the coming months, my mother turned the yards of fabric into a stunning ball-gown.

When it came time for the final fitting, I stood there elated, baffled by emotions, in front of the mirror in the ordinariness of our home. What I saw in the mirror was nothing at all ordinary. A dress so astoundingly lavish, that it made me feel like a princess from a bygone era. And to stand next to the woman who created it, was a dream come true for two. After all, one of the most rewarding moments, the real grande finale, comes when we get to cherish the outcome with the people we love. Not only my mother, but all the amazing people I grew up around, have been creative in their own way.

Both of my grandmothers have made sure that none of their children’s feet are ever cold thanks to their marvelous knitting skills. My father's mother handmade an incredible amount of vibrant rag rugs in her life, that not only decorated the floors of her house, but also brighten up dozens of other people’s homes too.

The seven rooms in her two-floored house, that my grandfather finished in the late 70s, were filled with plants, colorful handknit blankets and pillows. But the most earnest devotion was in my grandmother’s garden.

There were myriads of flowers in pots on the porch, and in the garden. A small greenhouse hid inside one of the most appetizing smells in the world, that of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers. Next to the greenhouse, was a small strawberry plot—my undeniable favorite. And in the soft, sunbaked soil of the small field next to the house, she grew a rich selection of Mother Nature’s abundance—pumpkins, peas, and carrots, to name a few. And here and there, in carefully selected places, she grew herbs. My favorites from her herbal garden were chamomile and peppermint, which I would at times drink as tea to prevent a cold in the heart of the crisp winters.

Not far from the small town my father grew up in, was the childhood home of my mother. Surrounded by forests and fields, in the peace and quiet of the Estonian countryside. The sand road that led to the house was framed by birch and pine trees. Just before the road curved downwards, the most heartwarming view opened in the front. A farmhouse with a separate guest house, an old barn, a charming garden of lilies, peonies, jasmine and apple trees.

The houses were built on a flat top of a hillside, and if you walked across the yard, you could see acres of fertile grassland plunging into dense forest. Behind the old barn was an old wooden bench, where we would sometimes sit to catch the warmth of the setting sun. Every day of the summer in the countryside was another adventure waiting to unravel, and in the heart of it, was my grandmother. My mother’s mother has silvery white hair, and a warm laughter that sparks up a whole room. When it comes to her cooking, she usually never forgets the dessert—there is often either pancakes, semolina mousse or kissel with curd. And for each, my grandmother loves to use her homegrown berries.

My father shares the same spark as my mother—the desire to create. And what comes to his knowledge, he has always been very generous with it. I still remember the day almost a decade ago, when my father first handed me a professional power drill, to complete a furniture project. He knew someone working in an upholstery factory, where we then purchased yards of furniture fabric. Then he bought a piece of plywood that now needed to be cut. It took me by surprise, when, after cutting the first piece, he handed the tool to me. It wasn’t just that tool that he gifted me that day, but a confidence in trying to create something of my own. It was him quietly telling me that “you can”. Whenever someone takes a moment of their time to teach us something, the most valuable lesson isn't about learning or bettering a skill. It's about them believing in us.

My parents’ diligence to create and their everlasting willpower to fix or better what already exists, is now more timely than ever. After favoring everything fast-paced, from clothing to cooking for decades, the world is slowly coming to realize the importance of these timeless crafts not only to our stress levels and creativity but also to our environment. Most of us have items in our wardrobe that we see as outdated, or have bought ages ago, but never even worn.

Besides selling or giving it away for charity, there’s always the possibility of giving it another look, to see if there is anything that could be done with a needle and thread to revive it. I grew up watching my loved ones build, sew, knit, cook and garden. It all granted me a mindset, that even from nothing, there can be a way to everything. What's best, the beauty of creating is not only in the completion, but just as much in the process and the people who share the creative journey with us.

A resolute romantic I am, I still hold onto one blissful dream that is yet to come true. One day in the peace and serenity of the countryside, I wish to enter an old church in an enchantingly long and elegant dress with delicate lace and lustrous embroidery. So fragile, yet so empowering. A celebration of love and family. It is the most beautiful dress that I have ever imagined, and I couldn’t think of anyone more precious to create it, than my own mother.

My father would walk me to a charming man in a fine tuxedo and a smile on his face. The dashing gentleman with a chiseled jawline and combed-back hair.

Some fabric stores have all their wedding dress textiles in their own section, and it’s by far the most alluring one. So much love and faith packed into one little heartfelt corner of a fabric store. All the laces, satins and silks with their delicate patterns and marvelous details. So enchanting to the eye and the touch, that for a moment I’m back to being a little girl, pointing at the pink sugar-glazed doughnut 20 years ago...