I never really had a room of my own.
Sure, there was always a room—but not one that fully belonged to me. I lived in a bedroom with my sister growing up. At school, I shared the dorm with a roommate.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always dreamed of a room where I could just be. A space to cry without hiding, laugh out loud, talk to myself, dance like a fool, or sit in silence for hours. A space that’s mine not just physically—but emotionally.
Now, I’ve finally rented a small studio. It’s old, a little shabby, and honestly overpriced. But lying on the floor, daydreaming about what I could create here, I knew—I had already fallen in love with it.
To make this room feel more like me, I started looking for something that would not only spark my creativity but also help me imprint a piece of myself onto the space. That’s when I came across tufting.
Just as I began considering which gun to buy, a friend arrived with a gift: a Clawlab tufting gun. I was stunned—and deeply moved. I can’t even explain how thoughtful it was.
I started my tufting journey with the Clawlab Gun. I didn’t expect it to keep me company, but somehow, it did. Every corner, every wall, every creaky floorboard—I got to decide what happened in this space.
In front of the window, where golden afternoon light poured in and danced across the frame. At my small worktable, hunched over late into the night, while the rest of the world slept. Even at the dinner table—with half a cup of lemon water to my left and a sketch of a new pattern to my right.
The kit is light and portable. During the final week, I even brought it back to the dorm. Whenever I felt frustrated by exams, I’d set it up and tuft a small coaster. The steady motion and soft yarn helped ease my stress—just a few quiet minutes to breathe and feel like myself again.
This wasn’t just crafting—it was claiming space.
And slowly, my once unfamiliar studio began to soak up my vibes.
A soft wall hanging now sways near my bookshelf—stitched in muted pinks and blues that remind me of a sea of flowers. There’s a giant rug in the center of the living room, tufted with oversized purple grapes, slightly weird but full of charm. The coaster on my desk has uneven edges and carries the ghost of a coffee spill I forgot to clean. I could have thrown it away and made a new one, but I didn’t. Because it also tells a small story. My daily story.
Even the mess around me—scraps of yarn, tangled cords, the dim halo of a projector—feels alive. The room grows with me, every tufted loop is its pulse, my belonging.
Outside, the city is loud and restless. Buses hiss, sirens wail, someone’s always shouting into their phone. Inside, barefoot on plush wool, I run a fingertip across a freshly finished piece. The noise fades. My shoulders relax. My breath slows. I picked up the scattered yarn, placed the gun and frame where they belonged, and lay down on my new piece. Thoughts slowly began to drift, untangling like thread in the quiet.
I look around—this messy, handmade, beautifully imperfect space—and I know: this is mine.
It’s not just a studio anymore.
It’s home.
