“This house is full of your tat”.

It was over 10 years ago, but I still remember those words, and they still hurt.

It wasn’t ‘tat’. It was my crafts. Things I’d made from the remnants of my grandmother’s lifelong collection of fabrics, and ribbons, and buttons.

Of course, the (ex) boyfriend in question didn’t see the hours I’d spent making the pattern, choosing the fabric and carefully adding embellishments.

A bit like that woman at the craft fair.

“I could make that; definitely not worth a fiver”.

So you won’t exchange your bit of blue paper for my nan’s precious corner of delicate lace? That she loved so much, she kept for decades? You don’t deem my years of practise and expertise to be worth less than an hour’s wage? Fine, I’ll keep it. You’ll never be able to find the same fabric anyway, it’s from the 1950s. So good luck with that.

But then…

Her eyes light up. She dives straight for it, as the emotions flow.

“Oh my GOODNESS! My aunt had that EXACT fabric in her bedroom curtains. Oh she was such a lovely woman, I remember the time…” And the stories come.

As her eyes glisten, she reaches into her purse without even a second thought, and thanks you for reigniting her childhood memories. She’ll keep it where she can see it, and smile whenever she does.

Your work is important.

The advice you gave, that stopped your client from taking the wrong path, and led her to triumph.

Your work is important.

The treatment you delivered, that healed, and helped to overcome the pain.

Your work is important.

The delicious treats you made, which distracted her from the grief and helped her to get through the day.

Your work is important.

The time you spent, practising, and refining, and perfecting.

Your work is important.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.