Get Up, Dress Up, Show Up

(A Letter of Light in Honor of Jillian Owens)

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a mother.

It’s one of my earliest memories — that knowing.

Long before I understood how fragile futures could be, or how quickly a body can turn against the stories you carry inside it.

In 2011, my husband and I saw two pink lines on a test we never expected to turn positive. And almost just as quickly, everything unraveled. There was bleeding. Bed rest. Words spoken softly by doctors that landed like doors closing. A ruptured tube. Emergency surgery. A body barely saved in time — and a future suddenly put into question.

What followed was a kind of quiet devastation.

Not just grief, but a fog.

A stillness where days blurred together and getting out of bed felt optional.

My sewing machine sat untouched. The parts of me that loved creating, thrift-store treasure hunting, making something beautiful out of almost nothing — they went quiet too.

Around that time, I found someone who believed in getting up anyway.

I don’t remember the exact moment I found her — only that I did. Somewhere in the haze, I stumbled onto a blog. Onto refashioning. Onto creativity that didn’t ask permission or require perfection. Onto a woman who showed up daily — with humor, intelligence, kindness, and a sense of play — and made something beautiful no matter what the day looked like.

Her name was Jillian.

She embodied a philosophy I already knew by heart — one that my cousin Alisha used to live by and repeat often:

Get up.

Dress up.

Show up.

Jillian didn’t do it loudly. She did it her way. Through thrifted dresses and careful stitches. Through learning and sharing. Through smiling at the camera with a softness that felt real. She showed that even a day at home could still be a day you showed up for.

And slowly — almost without realizing it — I did too.

Her website was genuinely great — thoughtfully designed, beautiful, functional, and easy to follow. The way she explained each refashion made learning feel accessible instead of intimidating. I learned so much from her details and descriptions. She was a truly gifted teacher, and her work absolutely leveled up my upcycling and thrifting skills.

I started checking in every day.

She refashioned clothes, loved thrifting, and had a dachshund named Douglas. Honestly, that alone would’ve pulled me in. The rest though…her beauty, light and the soul of her project just added more layers of awe.

There was joy in the way she moved, in the way she explained what she was doing, in the way she treated clothing not as something precious or untouchable, but as raw material for play. Even on ordinary days — even when she was staying home — she showed up as herself. Fully dressed. Fully present. Fully in it.

Watching her felt like permission.

Permission to take up space again.

Permission to care.

Permission to make something simply because it felt good to make.

She wasn’t chasing perfection. She was practicing presence. And in doing so, she reminded me of a part of myself I had misplaced — the part that loved creativity for its own sake. The part that knew how to make something beautiful out of almost nothing.

Slowly, my feet hit the floor again.

I dusted off my sewing machine. I went back to thrift stores and started treasure hunting the way I used to — curious, playful, unafraid. I remembered how good it felt to learn something new, to craft, to sew, to stitch, to reshape. For the first time in a long time, I felt like myself again.

I didn’t know you, Jillian.

But I knew your presence. I knew your rhythm. I knew the way you showed up — day after day — with creativity, humor, and steadiness. I knew the way you stood in your body and let it be seen, unpolished and unapologetic. I knew the joy you carried into ordinary moments.

Watching you felt like witnessing a kind of wholeness.

Not perfection.

Just presence.

The kind that says this life is worth showing up for, even on hard days.

You didn’t know what I was carrying when I found you. You didn’t know how hard it was for my feet to hit the floor, or how much of myself I had lost in that season. But you reached me anyway.

You helped me remember how to stand up again.

How to get dressed for my own life.

How to show up — not for an audience, but for myself.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Thank you for living your creativity out loud.

Thank you for making space for joy.

Thank you for finding beauty in disaster.

Thank you for helping me find my way back to the heart of myself.

My feet hit the floor and I plugged my sewing machine in again because of you!

This light you left behind is real.

And it’s still moving.

In loving memory of Jillian Owens (1982–2021).

Forever Refashionista.