Finding Healing in Hexagons: How Quilting Became My Therapy During Chemo

Finding Solace in Stitch and Paper

Ten years ago, when I was first diagnosed with cancer and began treatment, I found myself confined to my room, feeling too unwell to do much of anything. The world had suddenly narrowed to these four walls, and the vibrant, active life I'd known felt impossibly far away.

It was during one of these long, quiet days that my eyes fell on a collection of beautiful old sewing patterns I'd accumulated over the years. These vintage treasures, with their delicate tissue paper and intricate instructions, had been waiting patiently for someday projects—dresses I'd planned to make, blouses that had caught my imagination. But facing the reality of my situation, I knew I probably wouldn't use them to create clothes as originally intended. Yet I couldn't bear the thought of throwing them away.

That's when I began to experiment, and what started as a way to salvage something beautiful from patterns I couldn't use became one of the most therapeutic journeys of my life.

The Beginning: Transforming the Old into Something New

The concept emerged organically: create a quilt using these precious sewing pattern papers instead of fabric. I started by carefully gluing different pattern papers over each other, layering the translucent sheets to create intricate lines and overlapping designs. Each sheet told its own story—dress patterns, shirt sleeves, trouser legs—all transformed into something entirely new through this process of layering and reimagining.

There was something deeply satisfying about this first step. The careful application of glue, the precise alignment of edges, the gradual emergence of new patterns as the papers overlapped. It required just enough concentration to quiet my mind, but not so much that it became overwhelming on days when my energy was low.

The Rhythm of Repetition

Once the layered papers had dried, the real meditation began: hand-cutting hundreds of individual hexagonal shapes. Each piece needed to be cut with precision, following the lines I'd created through the layered patterns. I found myself falling into a rhythm—the soft sound of scissors through paper, the gentle flex of my fingers, the growing pile of geometric shapes beside me.

This project became my companion during chemotherapy. I'm not entirely sure why the repetitive motions helped so much during that time, but they did. Perhaps it was the way each small, manageable task offered a sense of control when so much felt uncertain. Treatment schedules, side effects, the unpredictability of how I'd feel from day to day—all of this was beyond my control. But I could cut one hexagon, then another, then another.

Each piece cut was a small victory, a tangible sign of progress when progress in other areas of my life felt impossible to measure. On days when I felt too unwell to do much else, I could still manage to cut a few shapes. On better days, I might cut dozens, watching my collection grow like a visual representation of time passing and strength gradually returning.

The Assembly: Creating Order from Chaos

After weeks of cutting, I moved to the next phase: arranging and gluing each hexagon onto a large backing paper. This stage required a different kind of focus—stepping back to see the bigger picture, making decisions about colour placement and pattern flow. The geometric precision of the hexagons created a satisfying sense of order, each piece finding its perfect place in the larger design.

There was something profoundly reassuring about this process of creating structure from what had initially seemed like hundreds of random pieces. It felt symbolic, somehow—taking fragments and making them whole, finding beauty in repetition, discovering that even the most scattered elements could come together to create something cohesive and beautiful.

The gluing process itself became another form of meditation. The careful placement of each piece, the gentle pressure needed to secure it, the gradual emergence of the overall pattern. Hours would pass without my noticing, lost in the gentle focus required to bring this vision to life.

The Final Chapter: Hand-Stitching in Toodyay

As my treatment neared its end, so did the major construction of my quilt. The pieces were cut, arranged, and glued—but one crucial step remained. Each hexagon needed to be hand-sewn to its neighbour, the final act that would truly make this collection of paper pieces into a unified whole.

I was in those final weeks after my last treatment when I made the decision to retreat to a friend's home in Toodyay. The gentle countryside, with its eucalyptus-scented air and peaceful quiet, felt like the perfect sanctuary for this final phase of both my treatment recovery and my quilt's completion.

There, surrounded by countryside tranquility, I spent several precious days with needle and thread. Each stitch was deliberate, connecting not just paper to paper, but somehow stitching together the fragmented pieces of myself that treatment had scattered. The rhythm of hand-sewing—the gentle pull of thread through paper, the satisfying tension as pieces joined together—felt like a continuation of all the meditative hours that had come before.

The Healing Power of Making

Looking back, I realise this quilt represented far more than a creative project. It was a daily practice of mindfulness, a way of staying present when the future felt uncertain. The repetitive nature of cutting, arranging, and sewing created a kind of moving meditation that helped me process not just the physical challenges of treatment, but the emotional ones as well.

There's something profound about creating beauty with your own hands during a time when your body feels unreliable. Each perfectly cut hexagon was proof that my hands could still create something precise and lovely. Each careful stitch was evidence that I could still bring pieces together, still make something whole.

The quilt that emerged from those months wasn't just made of paper and glue and thread—it was woven through with quiet moments of peace stolen from difficult days, with the satisfaction of small accomplishments when large ones seemed impossible, with the meditation of repetitive motion that somehow helped my mind and spirit heal alongside my body.

As I completed that final stitch in Toodyay, surrounded by the gentle sounds of the countryside, I knew I was finishing more than just a quilt. I was completing a chapter of resilience, a testament to the healing power of keeping our hands busy and our minds focused on the beautiful, manageable task right in front of us.

That was a decade ago now, and I'm happy to say I'm healthy and thriving. But that first paper quilt ignited something in me that continues to this day. What began as a way to cope with treatment has evolved into a central part of my artistic practice—exploring the intersection of traditional craft techniques, unconventional materials, and the meditative power of repetitive creation. The lessons I learned during those difficult months about finding peace in process and beauty in repurposing continue to inform every piece I make.