You’d think that after the first nomination — the one I announced to Scout like a Love Island contestant who’d lost the plot — I’d be a little more prepared the next time something exciting happened.
I wasn’t.
Not even close.
Life had settled back into its usual rhythm: sewing, cutting, tidying Narnia, untidying Narnia, losing my scissors, finding them under fabric I’d sworn I’d already moved, and occasionally remembering to eat something that wasn’t a biscuit. The Echo moment felt like a lovely memory. The first award nomination felt like a surreal blip. Things were calm again.
And then…
it happened.
Another email.
Another “Congratulations…”
Another moment where my brain went,
“No. Absolutely not. Someone’s pressed the wrong button.”
“Fair play…”
“But seriously now, what’s occurring?”
I stared at the screen, blinking like I’d forgotten how eyes work.
Nearly 52 years old, and still reacting to good news like a Victorian woman about to faint into a chaise longue.
I read it again.
And again.
And again.
A second nomination.
This time for The Perfect Gifts Awards 2025 — run by the same company behind my first nomination. The very same people who had already surprised me once had somehow decided to surprise me again. Out of all the makers they could have chosen, they’d come back to me.
I didn’t make a Love Island announcement this time.
I didn’t even speak out loud.
I just sat there in my chair, in the middle of the chaos, with Scout snoring gently beside me, and whispered:
“You’re joking.”
Scout didn’t even open an eye.
If anything, he snored louder — the canine equivalent of,
“Wake me when it’s dinner.”
But inside me, something shifted again.
A little deeper this time.
A little steadier.
The first nomination had felt like a fluke.
A happy accident.
A moment of luck.
But two?
Two meant something else entirely.
Two meant:
This isn’t an accident.
People see you.
People value what you do.
People feel something when they see your work.
And that was the part that undid me a little — in the best way.
I didn’t run to tell anyone straight away.
I didn’t post it online.
I didn’t even screenshot it.
I just sat with it.
Let it sink in.
Let myself feel proud without rushing past it.
Because this wasn’t about awards.
It wasn’t about trophies or titles or ceremonies.
It was about the quiet truth behind it all:
What I do matters.
And people are noticing.
Eventually, I did tell the family — but this time, it wasn’t the big, excited announcement I’d made before. When that second “Congratulations!” notice came through for the Bespoke Keepsake Gift 2025 category, I said it out loud almost out of habit, but the feeling was different.
Because by then, things at home had shifted.
Family ties had become strained and shrouded in confusion, and it didn’t really feel like something to announce. My business was thriving — truly thriving — but family evolves and changes, and 2025 proved its most challenging year for me. It was a bittersweet moment: success in one hand, uncertainty in the other.
But the real moment, the one that will stay with me forever, was the one in Narnia, with Scout snoring and the sewing machine humming quietly in the background.
A tiny room.
A tiny business.
A tiny email.
And a feeling that wasn’t tiny at all.