Stitched Tent from Sketchbook

I stitch fabric onto paper to create two small tents, connected through my sketchbook. I make space for myself inside this yellow tent through softness, fragments, and folded cloth that holds my breath. I arrived in the United States with a suitcase full of expectations but not enough room to rest. The outside world asks me to perform, to explain, to prove. But in here, no performance is required, no judgment is mandatory. My stories bend like fabric, stitched and frayed, shaped by memory and quiet resilience.

This stitched book tent is still in progress. It folds and unfolds in my hands, carrying sketches of longing. The yellow walls carry my handwriting, written in ink from late nights and early mornings when I tried to remember who I am. Daffodil prints and fragments of language surround me. In this space, even silence holds a voice.

The stitched tent from the sketchbook holds contradictions. I am tired but happy, homesick but growing. I do not need to translate myself in this space. I write in the languages that raised me.