Funny how everyone in my house had an opinion about the wall colour — until the reporter asked me to take a photo of myself holding the bear in front of it. Only a tiny corner of the room made it into the shot, but once the reporter released the article into their digital pool, it didn’t stay local… it went national.
Had I realised it was going to end up everywhere, I’d have made a far better effort with my hair and maybe even considered putting some makeup on. But it was one quick photo, taken without a second thought — which just shows how little I expected it to be seen beyond Cardiff.
I remember the moment the message came through. I genuinely thought it was a scam at first — why on earth would a reporter want to speak to me? I was just quietly sewing away in my little box room — A.K.A. Narnia — minding my own business, making memory bears and trying to keep the chaos under control. But no, it was real.
She’d seen a very particular bear I’d made — one created to commemorate the anniversary of the late Queen Elizabeth II. I’d first shared it on International Women’s Day because, that year, I couldn’t think of anyone more fitting to honour. She had passed away only six months earlier, and as her anniversary approached, I reposted the same image, wondering if anyone else might feel the same connection to what it represented: a moment in history, a collective memory, a woman who shaped an era.
That little bear carried a story far bigger than its stitches, and that’s what caught the reporter’s attention. It became the whole reason she wanted to feature my work, my story, and this tiny business I’d built from the kitchen table.
I answered her questions, sent the photo she’d asked for, and thought nothing more of it. I assumed it would be a small piece buried somewhere online, maybe seen by a handful of people who happened to scroll past it.
I was wrong.
The next morning, my phone nearly exploded. Messages, screenshots, tags — people telling me they’d seen me everywhere. Small local papers, big regional ones, and then the national giants. The front page of The Independent. Then The Telegraph. Then The Times. Even BBC News.
My little commemorative bear — and my very unprepared hair — had travelled across the whole of the UK.
But here’s the part that still makes me smile.
In spite of all that coverage, the phone call I got from my parents wasn’t:
“Sharon, you’re on the front page of The Times!”
or
“We’ve just seen you on BBC News!”
No.
It was:
“Sharon… you’re in The Echo.”
And my response — with all the sarcasm and affection it deserved — was:
“Thanks. You know you’ve finally made it if you’re in The Echo.”
Growing up in South Wales, The Echo was the paper. The one that sat on the kitchen table. The one that made news feel official. So to them — and honestly, to me — that was the moment it all felt real.
It was surreal.
Humbling.
Terrifying.
Wonderful.
And completely unexpected.
But the best part?
Seeing people respond to the heart of what I do.
Not the photo.
Not the wall colour.
Not the chaos behind the scenes.
But the meaning behind the bears — especially the one that started all of this.
That moment changed everything. It gave me confidence I didn’t know I needed, and it reminded me that sometimes the world sees you long before you’re ready — and maybe that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.
And just when I thought that was enough excitement for one lifetime… something else happened. Something even more unexpected. Something I absolutely did not see coming.
I got nominated for an award.