The Beauty in a Jar of Buttons
There’s something about a jar of buttons that stops me in my tracks. I can’t pass one in an antique store without pausing, leaning in close, and letting my fingers trail over the glass. To most people, it’s nothing more than scraps of fabric history—snippets of coats long gone, lost blouses, children’s dresses that have faded into memory. But to me, jars of buttons hold a whole world.
There’s something about a jar of buttons that stops me in my tracks. I can’t pass one in an antique store without pausing, leaning in close, and letting my fingers trail over the glass. To most people, it’s nothing more than scraps of fabric history—snippets of coats long gone, lost blouses, children’s dresses that have faded into memory. But to me, jars of buttons hold a whole world.
When I was little, my mom kept her buttons in a round tin container. She sewed often—patching, mending, or altering things to make them last longer. My sister and I would sit on the floor, spilling the buttons out like treasures, sorting them into piles by shape, by size, by color. Smooth ivory circles, little navy anchors, chunky wooden discs. We’d pretend they were coins, jewels, or puzzle pieces.
We didn’t know it then, but those afternoons were teaching us something about life: not everything has to be discarded. Some things can be fixed. Some things deserve the care of a second chance.
Repairing Clothes, Repairing Life
Fast fashion wasn’t a phrase in my childhood vocabulary. Clothes weren’t meant to be disposable—they were meant to be repaired. A missing button didn’t mean tossing the shirt, it meant sewing it back together. Watching my mom at the sewing machine, I realized how ordinary care could restore something to usefulness.
Now, living in a world where “new” often feels like the only answer, I can’t help but feel the loss of that rhythm. Our culture has moved so quickly into buying, tossing, and replacing that we’ve forgotten the beauty of repair. When I see jars of buttons now, I’m reminded that life itself can be mended. Broken seasons don’t mean the end. Missing pieces don’t mean the whole thing should be thrown away.
A Gentle Reminder of Her
I lost my mom in 2020. Looking back, we realize it was most likely complications from Covid or the flu—they just weren’t calling it that at the time. Losing her left a gap that I still can’t sew closed. And yet, every time I find a jar of buttons, I feel her with me. It’s as if those tiny circles carry her care, her hands, her patience.
It’s funny how the most ordinary objects can become anchors for memory. A jar of buttons is nothing to some—but to me, it’s a thread back to her. It’s proof that beauty doesn’t always come in grand gestures. Sometimes it’s in the simplest collections, the rituals of sorting and saving.
Choosing Simplicity Again
Scrolling today’s feeds, it feels like life is measured in jet-setting vacations, designer handbags, and viral videos. Everything is about speed, spectacle, and the next big thing. But jars of buttons remind me that life doesn’t have to be consumed that way. There’s meaning in slowness. In reusing. In valuing what’s already here, instead of chasing what’s not.
And maybe that’s the lesson my mom left me without ever saying it out loud:
Not everything has to be new to be beautiful.
Not everything has to be perfect to be worth keeping.
Not everything that feels broken is beyond repair.
So when I see jars of buttons, I stop. I breathe. I remember her. And I let the beauty in simplicity remind me that my own life, no matter how scattered, can still be stitched back together too.
