In the corner of my room under a pile of abandoned hobbies and broken dreams lies an undisturbed handmade quilt: a gathering of fabrics of different textures, patterns, and hues, as gauche as the 13-year-old girl who assembled it. This disheveled heap of discarded fabric held together with a whirlwind of odd threading is a pathetic sight to see, as if straight off the island of misfit toys. Knowing its story, though, one would know how much this misfit toy is worth.
To me, middle school was torturous. My medication left me pensive and distant toward others. Whether it was by their choice or mine, my elementary school friends slowly faded from my life, leaving me alone in my mind, unwilling to reach out. In the wake of my newfound ostracization, I sought comfort in sewing projects. I replaced my friends with poorly made dolls.

One lonely winter break, while wandering the house in search of materials for my next sewing project, I encountered a lone sock sitting atop the dryer. It may have just been a lingering empathy for inanimate objects thanks to years of Pixar films, but I felt for the abandoned sock. Although it seems ludicrous, in that moment, I saw myself as that sock: forgotten by its mate and left to a life of solitude. I couldn’t stand for the injustice that had befallen my little fabric friend.

With my next project now found, I scoured the house for mismatched socks, excavating my sock drawer and peeking under my bed. Refusing to discriminate, I took every outcasted sock, heedless of strange patterns and odd textures. With my candidates lined up, I began slicing them into neat squares of patterned fabric. From there, I hastily sewed them together into a quilt. I saw it as my duty to prevent these socks from feeling as alone as I did. Over the course of a day, my little quilt grew from the size of a washcloth to that of a pillowcase.

By the time I got to high school, I felt as if I had awakened from a three-year coma and found myself in a friendless life. The companionship of my handmade dolls could no longer satisfy me. But with my newfound maturity, I saw that I wasn’t alone in my loneliness. There were others who felt lthe same. I gathered up other mismatched socks like me: a couple of girls in my gym class. Together we were connected by the fact that we were no longer alone.

I keep my old sock quilt as a reminder that each of us is gifted with a series of companions for each stage of life. Sometimes we outgrow those friends as we outgrow socks. Parting may hurt, but there are always more matches to be found. All we need to do is reach out.