THE DAILY DRAPE
A quiet corner of the atelier, where thoughts gather like threads on a cutting table. The Daily Drape is part diary, part design journal—a place for sketches in word form, small revelations, and the slow unraveling of what it means to make heirloom garments by hand. Some entries trace the path of a gown. Others are fragments of inspiration, textures, obsessions. Always: intention, and the drape of a day well spent.
In the Back, with the Boleros
Why So Many "Plus"-Size Brides Still Feel Left Out—Even When They’re Invited In
There is a moment that repeats itself like a sharp ache in so many bridal stores. A moment when a bride walks in with hope—told that there’s “inclusive sizing,” maybe even featured in the marketing—only to be gently, silently, swiftly led to the back.
And then comes the rack.
A few options. Maybe in scratchy satin. Or endlessly ruched. Or crowned with a polyester bolero like a final punctuation mark that reads: We weren’t really expecting you.
Design has long followed the outline of a ghost: a fit model, a mannequin, a muse whose measurements once served as the blueprint for most clothing made. She haunts the margins of the design room—the standard by which all others are adjusted. It’s not personal, but it feels deeply personal when you’re the one being “adjusted.”
Because so much of what’s made wasn’t made for you.
Even now, with entire collections claiming inclusion, the language doesn’t always match the experience. The dresses may technically exist in an orderable size, but not in spirit. The aesthetic, the quality, the detail—the soul of the piece—has often been stripped away in translation.
The message? We carry your size to check a box.
I’ve worked in this industry for nearly two decades. I’ve heard the sighs. I’ve seen the eyes dart down and away. I’ve altered dresses that took an overhaul to feel right, and tailored silhouettes meant to hide rather than celebrate. I’ve watched radiant, visionary women walk away with something less—not because they lacked imagination, but because the world around them did.
I’m tired of seeing only generic options and blank silhouettes with costly add-ons as the only path to personality. And I say this with pause, because my intention isn’t to be negative or imply that all stores are this way. Some designers do offer a range of sizes—but my question is about the willingness to adapt the design with care. To take the time to find the most flattering, intentional outcome. To offer consistent variety—not just availability.
On the Term “Plus Size”
A note on language: Plus size is the most common term used in the industry, but it’s not one I love. It suggests that some bodies are an offshoot or exception, rather than part of the richly varied whole. It’s a phrase born from marketing and retail convenience—not from a place of honoring shape, nuance, or individuality.
In my work, I aim to step outside the flat constraints of standardized sizing altogether. I don’t start with a single sample size and scale it up—I begin by draping directly onto a form that reflects the body I’m designing for. That means considering proportion, posture, and movement from the very first pin—not as an afterthought.
There is so much dimensional beauty in every body. When we begin from that belief, design becomes an act of celebration—not accommodation.
A Learning Curve—Backed by Witness
This work has come with its own learning curve.
I didn’t arrive at this point with all the answers, but through years of listening. Years of tailoring. Years of bearing witness to the deflation of clients told—again and again—that their bodies were too difficult, too different, too inconvenient to dress.
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve heard “Oh, it’s okay—I’m used to it,” as someone brushed aside their disappointment in a fitting room after their dress arrived. I’ll never forget one client who’d been turned away by multiple tailors after purchasing three sample-size gowns in an attempt to build one that resembled her dream dress. One tailor had the audacity to suggest losing weight. In tears, she finally found me. Challenge accepted. No problem.
That moment—and so many like it—fuel my approach: a commitment to honoring each form individually, draping on the body or form rather than flattening it to fit a chart. To unlearn the harm caused by fashion systems and to replace it with dignity, presence, and beauty.
That’s the work I want to continue exploring—more deeply and more deliberately.
Not as a token gesture. Not a one-off moment. But a conscious, steady reimagining of the archive. Of beauty. Of belonging. An evolution.
I’ll be revisiting some of my past silhouettes with a new eye—and a full heart—through the Iteration and Solitude Series, making space for heirloom pieces that aren’t adaptations, but origins of a range of shapes.
Because I believe the magic of a dress begins where your story starts—not in the back, and never with a bolero.
xx Diana
To Make Beauty in the Dark
Designing through difficult times
There are seasons when making dresses feels like an act of softness. And then there are seasons when it feels like resistance.
In times of uncertainty, it can feel indulgent—frivolous, even—to talk about fabric and form. But history tells us something different. That in darkness, beauty has often been a form of survival. A language of hope. A declaration of life continuing.
During the Second World War, Christian Dior began sketching what would become his New Look—a silhouette so opulent and feminine that it was almost defiant. At a time when fabric was rationed, his designs celebrated fullness: nipped waists, voluminous skirts, gentle curves. It was a reclamation of beauty, a turning back toward the self after years of hardship.
Elsa Schiaparelli, no stranger to war or personal difficulty, found surrealism and satire in the midst of global turmoil. Her designs winked at reality, offering an escape hatch for the imagination. A hat shaped like a shoe. Embroidery like constellations. She dressed women like mythologies in motion.
And Hubert de Givenchy, designing in the shadow of postwar austerity, created garments that felt weightless—cloud-like silks, clean lines, the kind of elegance that whispered instead of shouted. His muse, Audrey Hepburn, became a symbol of refined resilience, of grace held intact. An icon.
These designers remind us: the feminine form has always been political. To center it, celebrate it, and dress it with care is not frivolous—it is a form of remembrance. Of resistance. Of reverence. Of sparking joy even in the most turbulent realities.
As a designer today, I often feel the dissonance of our moment. The world is loud with heartbreak. And yet, I still find myself pinning delicate tulle into place. Still tracing the curve of a hip seam with the utmost care and attention. Still painting flowers on silk at midnight because beauty insists on being born.
To design in the midst of sorrow is not to ignore it. It is to hold it gently. To honor that we are still here, still reaching for the sublime. It is to say: even now, the body deserves tenderness. Even now, the spirit longs to be adorned.
To those of you seeking beauty during difficult times—whether in a wedding gown, a capsule, or a piece you save just for yourself—you are part of that legacy. Not just of fashion, but of feeling. Of remembering what matters. Of choosing softness not as escape, but as resistance.
This is how we go on. This is how we dress for it.
xx Diana
The Notions We Don't See
A new journal series on rethinking the hidden architecture of our clothes
When we talk about sustainable design, we usually think of fabric—natural fibers, deadstock finds, or low-impact dyes. But in the hidden bones of a garment, the truth is harder to find.
Thread. Interfacing. Zippers. Elastic. Closures. Buttons. Boning. Labels.
Nearly every part of the dressmaking process has been flooded with synthetics—materials made to be cheap, fast, and invisible to the end wearer. This extends far into the high-end market. But just because they’re hidden doesn’t mean they don’t matter. These are the structures that touch our skin, support our silhouettes, and often remain long after the garment itself begins to break down.
And I’ve been in a quiet, ongoing search for alternatives.
Some days, it feels nearly impossible. Sustainable options for these "notions" are scarce, expensive, and inconsistent in quality. I've been deep in the weeds of trial and error: testing cotton threads that snap too easily, experimenting with biodegradable elastic that loses stretch too soon, dyeing natural grosgrain to replace polyester ribbon.
At one point, I even considered gatekeeping my discoveries. It’s taken so much work to find anything viable.
But hoarding knowledge isn’t at the heart of sustainability. The point is to push the industry—slowly, collectively—toward something better.
So this is the beginning of a new kind of journal here: occasional notes from the workbench on what I’m testing, what’s working, and where it all falls short. It won’t be perfect. But it will be honest.
Because true sustainability isn’t just about how things look—it’s about the integrity of what holds them together.
The Dresses That Never Wear
Unfinished Stories, Unanswered Silhouettes
Not every dress gets made.
Sometimes a conversation begins with a spark—an incredible reference, a quirky bride-to-be, a mood board that feels like a shared secret waiting to be fully formed. And then… silence. Life shifts. Minds change. Timelines blur. And what could have been becomes what wasn’t.
These almost-gowns linger in my mind. Not as regret, but as ghosts of potential. A whisper of pleats that would’ve framed the shoulder just so. A sketch pinned beside a swatch of silk that remains folded, untouched. The silhouette that will spontaneously spring into my mind’s focus.
In this work, the process is as personal as the piece. It’s not transactional—it’s relational. So when a client drifts away, it doesn’t always feel like a missed opportunity for business. It feels like the loss of an unfolding story.
And yet, there’s something beautiful in holding space for the ones that got away. These phantom dresses are part of my creative archive. They taught me what I was hungry to make. They pushed my sketches in new directions. They revealed where connection lives—and where it falters.
I return to them sometimes. Re-envision them. Rethink the construction. Repurpose an idea in a new form. Because in the end, those unmade gowns still shaped me. And maybe, in another season, they’ll find their moment after all.
This is just the first in a series I’ve long wanted to share—an archive of the dresses that never were. Over time, I’ll be revisiting sketches and ideas left behind, reflecting on the creative sparks that still linger and what they continue to teach me. Some may find new life. Some may remain as studies. But all of them offer a window into the artistry behind custom work—and the gentle pull of what could have been.
The Life Inside the Dress
On Heirloom Redesigns and the Poetry of Continuation
There is a particular kind of magic in being handed a dress with history.
Maybe it’s your mother’s gown, wrapped carefully in tissue. Maybe it’s a sleeve of lace or a whisper of embroidery from a grandmother’s veil. These aren’t just garments—they’re touchstones. Carriers of memory. Symbols of devotion, survival, joy. They kept it for you all these years and, even if they downplay it, there is a hope it’s used.
When a client brings me an heirloom, they’re not just asking for a redesign. They’re asking for preservation. Translation. Transformation. It’s a delicate kind of alchemy—to honor what was, while creating space for what is and what will be.
Sometimes it’s a matter of subtle refinements: softening the silhouette, adjusting the neckline, adding modern structure or replacing aged linings with natural, breathable fabrics. Other times, the original piece becomes raw material—a source of textile, trim, or inspiration that finds new life in a completely reimagined design. The original may be unwearable as-is, but its spirit continues.
This process is not just sustainable—it’s deeply intentional. There’s no fast fashion here, no wasteful reinvention. Instead, it’s a dialogue between generations, between hand and heart. We use what’s already been loved, and love it into something entirely your own.
These redesigns often become the most meaningful pieces I create. Not because they’re flashy or trend-forward, but because they feel alive—layered with time and care. Because they are as much about belonging as they are about beauty.
Whether we’re making gentle edits or starting anew with salvaged elements, the result is the same: a garment that holds legacy and individuality in equal measure. A dress that doesn’t erase history, but writes the next chapter.
Why I Charge for the Call, and why it’s worth every minute
It’s become a bit of a modern reflex: we hop on calls, we pick brains, we gather options. But when it comes to creating something as personal and involved as a custom garment—especially a wedding dress or capsule wardrobe—the initial conversation isn’t just a quick Q&A. It’s the first sketch of your vision.
The calls I offer aren’t scripted sales pitches. They’re thoughtful, intuitive conversations—grounded in years of experience—where I begin mapping your ideas to reality. We talk timelines, fabrics, silhouettes, feelings. We weigh options and logistics. I hold space for your hopes and your hesitations. And whether you move forward or not, I’ve shown up with intention.
This kind of care takes energy, presence, and preparation. It’s a form of creative labor—and a cornerstone of how I work.
Charging for these calls isn’t about creating a barrier. It’s about honoring the value of time and trust—both yours and mine. It sets the tone that this isn’t fast fashion, but a deeply considered collaboration.
If you’re here, you already know you want something different. Something that reflects you in a way off-the-rack never could. That kind of work starts with a conversation—and that conversation is worth investing in.
On Heirloom-Worthy Clothing: Beauty That Outlives a Trend
What Is an Heirloom Piece—Really?
In a time where garments are made to be worn, discarded, and replaced in the span of a single season, the idea of clothing as an heirloom might feel like a relic of the past. But heirloom pieces aren’t just things we inherit—they're pieces intentionally made to outlive us. They’re garments that carry story, craftsmanship, and soul.
An heirloom piece is less about nostalgia and more about design that endures: a silhouette not bound to a single era, a fabric chosen for how it wears and ages, construction that can be tailored, mended, and ultimately passed down.
Heirlooms aren’t created by accident. They are built with care from the first sketch to the final stitch. They ask the wearer: What do you want this to mean later, not just now?
Qualities That Make a Garment Heirloom-Worthy:
Natural Fibers: Silk, wool, cotton, linen—materials that breathe, age gracefully, and tell a story as they wear. These fabrics tend to hold up over time, unlike synthetic blends that may yellow, stretch, or fall apart.
Timeless Design: Not basic, not trendy. A shape or detail that feels personal, poetic, and expressive of who you are, not what’s popular.
Tailored Fit: Whether sculpted or relaxed, the piece honors your form and makes you feel like yourself in it. When it’s made for you, it becomes a part of your identity—not just your wardrobe.
Intentional Construction: Stitches done by hand or with precision machines, seams that are finished with care, linings chosen for feel and drape. This is not fast fashion—it’s slow, conscious craftsmanship.
Emotional Connection: At the heart of any heirloom-worthy piece is how it makes you feel when you put it on. It might not be flashy or reserved for rare occasions—it might be understated, familiar, worn often. But each time you reach for it, there’s a certain feeling: this is me. It aligns with your sense of self. It softens your posture, straightens your shoulders, brings you ease.
You return to it not because it’s the most expensive or dramatic thing in your wardrobe (though, those can be incredibly fun to wear too), but because it never asks you to be anything other than yourself. That connection—subtle, personal, and repeated—is what transforms a garment into something more lasting. Something worthy of care. Something you’ll keep.
Heirlooms of the Future
We tend to think of heirlooms as antique lace veils or museum-worthy gowns behind glass—but perhaps they’re also a perfect linen dress worn every spring, or a coat with your initials embroidered inside, or trousers designed with your grandmother’s silhouette in mind.
The idea is less about preciousness and more about presence. When a piece is made to last, and made with you in mind, it becomes something worth keeping, worth caring for, and worth handing down.
If the fast fashion model tells us we are only as valuable as our most recent purchase, heirloom-making flips the narrative: You are worth designing for. And what you wear can—and should—live on.
This is the sentiment we return to when creating garments for life’s most significant chapters. Whether for a wedding or a moment marked only by your own sense of meaning, an heirloom piece should feel like a breath held—delicate in the hand, magnetic to the eye. It invites you to pause, to look again. Not for its ornament, but for how unmistakably it feels like you. That rare, calling thrill of recognition—that is the essence of a true heirloom.
A Wardrobe with a Soul: Dressing for the Life You Actually Live
There comes a moment—somewhere between your fifth underwhelming online order and the realization that you're wearing the same three outfits on repeat—when you begin to crave more from your clothes.
Not more of them. But more meaning. More ease. More confidence in how they fall on your body and how you feel stepping out the door.
You might be heading into a year full of events—celebrations, travels, or simply new seasons of self—and the idea of “getting dressed” suddenly feels weighty. The overwhelm of trends, poor fabric, and impractical design becomes exhausting. The gap between who you are and what’s available off the rack grows wider.
This is where custom comes in.
Not just for the beautiful gown, but for beautiful day-to-day pieces.
The Case for a Custom Capsule
A capsule wardrobe is not about minimalism or rules. It's about curation—with intention, with longevity in mind, and with you at the center. For some, that may mean a series of interchangeable pieces for dinners, travel, or speaking engagements. For others, it’s a few luxurious staples that make getting dressed feel like self-expression, not self-negotiation.
What if you had pieces you looked forward to wearing again and again? That flattered every time, that held their shape and soul across seasons, and that didn't just "spark joy" but actually delivered it?
Together, we design from your rhythm—creating with your preferences as the starting point and choosing fabrics that are beautiful in look and feel.
For the Client Who Knows Themselves (Or Wants To)
The most successful capsule collaborations are rooted in conversation. We talk as friends, style like collaborators. You don’t need to know what you want—but it helps to know how you want to feel. We’ll get there from there.
Some clients bring a beloved piece they’ve worn into the ground, and we start by reimagining it with better fabric and better fit. Others come with a list of events for the year and a desire to dress intentionally for each one, without falling into fast fashion fatigue.
What you get is more than a wardrobe. You get a through-line: a sense of coherence and comfort in your clothing—pieces that speak to your life as it is and as it evolves.
The Process
It begins with a discovery call—casual but considered—where we map your needs and vision. From there, we’ll sketch possibilities, source fabrics, and build a plan around your lifestyle and budget. There’s no pressure for a full overhaul. Just a path to fewer, better things.
Let’s reimagine what your wardrobe can be.
Book your Atelier Introduction
Before you say ‘Yes’
What to know before stepping into stores
The search for the dress often begins with a mix of thrill and pressure. You scroll, you pin, you book a few appointments. You tell yourself you'll “just try a few on,” but very quickly, the experience becomes its own sort of performance—standing on a pedestal in sample sizes that don’t quite fit, smiling as stylists chirp about their favorites, surrounded by well-meaning opinions.
There’s a quiet truth that few speak about until it’s too late: that buying off the rack, even when the dress is beautiful, can leave you feeling like a guest in someone else’s vision. That you made a choice because it was there, not because it was yours.
Most dresses are made to appeal to as many people as possible, produced in bulk with limited flexibility. They can be stunning, yes—but they weren’t made with you in mind. They weren’t draped to your silhouette, stitched with your quirks and preferences in mind, or designed to evolve with you throughout the emotional span of your engagement.
What you discover after purchase is often this: the garment doesn’t quite carry the weight of your story. You’re left with a list of compromises—a fabric you didn’t love, a silhouette that wasn’t quite right, and a nagging feeling that something is missing.
That “something” is intentionality.
A custom garment is slow by nature. It takes time, care, and conversation. It evolves with your ideas, and its details are shaped by the nuances of who you are—not who the industry thinks you should be. It’s not about extravagance; it’s about alignment.
And it means never having to settle for close enough.
There’s a quiet gap in the bridal industry that’s haunted me for most of my career—the lack of guidance brides receive before they make their purchase.
Over the years, I’ve worked with hundreds of clients in tailoring rooms, gently reshaping the dress they’d chosen. And more often than not, their story was the same: “I couldn’t find what I had in mind, so I just went with the best of what was available.” At the time, it feels like a reasonable compromise. But as the wedding draws nearer, that feeling often shifts.
It speaks to the people-pleaser in so many of us—wanting to be easy, to not seem high-maintenance, to just pick something so we can move forward. Some brides try on dozens (even hundreds) of gowns, only to buy the one that ends the process. Not necessarily the one they love.
I’ve sat with this time and again, quietly calling out the pattern when I see it: the post-purchase unease, the last-minute impulse buys in an attempt to cure that sinking feeling. And every time, I’ve wished I could have offered a few guiding notes before they began—something to anchor their vision and protect their joy.
Before falling for the silhouette or the tight clipping, take a moment to look deeper: What is it made of? Where was it made? Who made it—and how do they handle timelines, communication, and the unexpected? Often, even gowns priced well into the five figures are made with synthetic materials, and not all stylists are equipped to speak to fabric content or construction. Always check the content label on the sample, and don’t be afraid to ask direct questions. A wedding dress is more than a photo moment—it’s an heirloom in the making, and you deserve to know exactly what you're stepping into.
So in that spirit, I’ve gathered a few essentials. A soft place to begin. Because the more you know before you start shopping, the more empowered you’ll be to choose what truly belongs to you.
What to Ask Before You Say Yes:
A Thoughtful Checklist for the Dress Search
What is the gown made of?
Look for content labels and ask directly about fabric composition. Natural fibers like silk, cotton, and linen breathe better, wear beautifully, and often feel more luxurious than synthetics.Where was the dress made?
Understanding the origin helps illuminate the craftsmanship, ethical standards, and overall quality behind the piece.How transparent is the designer or label?
Can they speak clearly about their process, their materials, and how the gown is constructed?Are the stylists knowledgeable about construction and fit?
A well-trained stylist should guide you not just to what’s pretty—but to what works for your body, timeline, and needs.How does the shop or designer handle timeline changes or design pivots?
Life happens. Understand their flexibility and policies around fit adjustments, delays, or evolving preferences.Is the dress still beautiful on the inside?
Peek inside the seams. Are the linings thoughtful? Are details like buttons, closures, and boning finished cleanly? These often-overlooked elements say a lot about care and craftsmanship.How does sizing work for this designer—and for this gown in particular?
This is a big one, and often the quiet culprit behind post-purchase disappointment—even when a dress arrives in the "right size."There’s much to say here (and I will, in a full post to come), but for now: start by noting the sample size you tried on and where the stylist clipped it to fit. Backless or slip-style gowns are often pinned in ways that don’t honor the true pattern lines, so what you fall in love with in the mirror may not reflect how the final dress will actually sit on the body.
If the fit of the clipped sample speaks to you—take detailed photos. Bring those to your tailor. A thoughtful tailor will be highly attuned to how even minor adjustments can shift the garment’s balance, especially in pieces with open backs or minimal structure. These styles are especially subjective in their fit, and setting a clear expectation at the start will go a long way in achieving the outcome you imagined.
Does the experience feel personal—or transactional?
This is a milestone moment. Choose partners who listen, guide, and make space for you—not just your purchase.
Asking these questions does not make you high maintenance or indulgent. Any store or stylist invested in their work, will answer each with grace and excitement at your curiosity.
I would also encourage anyone reading this to share it with your shopping companions so that they can best support your journey to find what’s right for you. xx Diana
Made to Measure: The Art of Custom Wedding Dresses in Omaha and Beyond
In a world of mass-produced silhouettes and fleeting trends, the custom wedding dress remains one of the last true luxuries—an heirloom in the making, crafted to hold memory and meaning.
Here in Omaha, nestled quietly behind the veil of mainstream bridal, I work with brides across the country to bring their vision to life—intimately, intentionally, and from scratch. Whether you’re searching for a custom wedding dress in Omaha or seeking an online designer who can translate your essence into fabric, this is where the journey begins.
Each gown is created from the ground up—guided by conversation, intuition, and craftsmanship. I send swatch boxes and measuring tapes across state lines. I host video calls that feel more like tea with an old friend. Together, we evolve the design, shape the fit, and refine the details until every seam reflects you.
Clients often arrive overwhelmed by options, unsure where to begin. But here, you don’t have to know everything. You just need to know how you want to feel.
This isn’t a transaction—it’s a collaboration. One where I’m with you every step of the way, helping you make the big decisions, easing the fear of commitment, and gently recalibrating when vision shifts. Your story is safe here. And your dress will be one-of-a-kind—because so are you.
If you’re seeking a custom wedding dress in Omaha or online, I invite you to explore the archive, read through the experience, and if it feels aligned, let’s begin the conversation.
Why Custom Doesn’t Mean Risky—And Why Off-the-Rack Isn’t Always Safe
