The Unexpected Gift of Helping Someone Else

Sometimes helping someone else is exactly what I need.

As a coach, I’ve learned that we shouldn’t do for others what they can do for themselves. It robs people of the chance to solve their own problems and build confidence. Generally speaking, it’s a good rule to live by. Yet sometimes helping someone else brings unexpected gifts.

Labours of Love

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been spending hours repairing a 29-year-old handmade quilt. It’s a Sesame Street–themed work of art my mother created for my eldest in 1996. A colourful game board, complete with fabric die and little game tokens that disappeared long ago. It has been well-loved, and the phrase “a stitch in time saves nine” clearly never made it into my daughter’s vocabulary. There’s a lot to repair, and I initially questioned whether this threadbare artifact was even worth the effort.

The Pareto Principle is alive and well here: one hour with my sewing machine closed the gaping holes and made the quilt look like a quilt again. But the finer details of re-attaching the letters and numbers my daughter once used to learn her ABCs will take far longer. These stitches can’t be rushed.

At the same time, my youngest needs a new zipper on their winter coat. Not a huge project, but like the quilt, a labour of love. There are fewer and fewer opportunities to help my very adult, very independent children. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree: I like to help where I can.

The Unexpected Gift of Helping Someone Else

What I didn’t expect was how both of these projects would evoke memories of my mother as a younger woman. She was an experienced seamstress, and as I work, I can practically see her with the head down, moving quickly, stitching with purpose. I wasn’t there when she made this quilt, but I remember that posture, that pace, that determination from so many other projects. I can even picture my dad beside her, helping to trace and cut the letters.

These images feel like watching old home movies. There is comfort in the familiarity of it all. I feel closer to them as I thread a needle or even prick my finger.

My dad passed away in 2017, and my mother now lives in assisted care, her memories slipping away as easily as loose threads. Perhaps I’m feeling a little nostalgic as the holidays approach. My parents loved to give.

Get ‘er done!

As I sew, I can still see some of the needle marks left by my mother’s stitches and I trace her path as the brightly coloured embroidery floss holds fast to those letters after so many snuggles and washings. I can practically feel her impatience as she attacked these projects with gusto until finished. These were not projects to be savoured but rather something to get completed as fast as possible. Then she could get on to the next thing.

Conversations at a Distance

We now live 1,558 kilometres apart or 15 hours and 37 minutes by car, according to Google Maps. I’ve made the trip nearly every year since moving to Montreal in 1990, sometimes four times in one year. And every afternoon at 2:55 p.m., my alarm rings to remind me to call my mother. She no longer has her own phone, so a care giver brings her the portable for our quick chat.

Conversations with my mom have been a challenge since she told me last summer that she did not know who I was. That was a first and it felt like a gut punch. Questions that seem simple to me will confuse her. “How are you?” is a question that frequently evokes no response.

I celebrate the days when she recognizes my voice. Or when she remembers that I am hers.

A Shift

But the quilt has shifted something unexpectedly.

Instead of asking my mother about her day, I’ve started telling her stories. The current one is about that quilt she lovingly stitched almost 30 years ago. It still serves as my daughter’s treasured “TV blanket,” loved not just for the warmth but because “Nanny made it.”

I describe the bright primary colours, the matching embroidery thread, the letters and numbers she secured by hand. I tell her about the red border, the layers tied together with rainbow knots, and the signature on the back:

“1996 Grandma.” (Back when she was still Grandma, before the little ones started calling her Nanny.)

As I paint the picture for her, I hear something shift. She may not retrieve the memory, but there is recognition as some thread of connection tugging at her. One of the nurses told me later, “She was very engaged in that conversation.”

That first call about the quilt lasted twelve whole minutes. Most days, we get three.

Gratitude

So yes, I still believe in empowering people to solve their own problems.

But I’m also deeply grateful for this tattered quilt. Helping someone else allowed me to make something a little better for someone I love, and for the unexpected doorway it opened back to my mom.

Each stitch is a reminder that connection doesn’t disappear; it simply changes shape.

Sometimes it looks like a memory, sometimes a story, and sometimes a worn-out blanket that still has work left in it.

If you’re navigating caregiving, changing family roles, or the emotional transitions of midlife, I’d love to support you. You’re not alone in this.