Claire Patterson designing our flagship studio in Austin, TX.
Q: How has your interiors background influenced the Loveweld studio experience?
“I studied metalsmithing in college, but spent much of my twenties working in luxury residential and commercial interior design in Chicago. That experience helped tremendously as Loveweld expanded into more retail spaces.
We wanted our studios to feel like living rooms — warm, collaborative, and comfortable — while still using commercial-grade materials that stand up to the demands of retail.
The goal is to create a space where clients and welders can sit together, collaborate, and create heirloom pieces that feel deeply personal.”
I. OPENING
Some things in life feel separate until they don’t. Motherhood. Work. Loss. Love. For a long time, I held them apart, believing each required a different version of me. But over time, something quieter revealed itself.
A thread.
Running through each moment. Each woman. Each season. I used to think I was building something. Now I understand,
I was being woven.
— Sarah Sides (founder)
II. MARGOT
When I was pregnant with my daughter, I carried a different kind of fear.
Not whether she would be safe—
but whether she would remain whole.
There are parts of ourselves the world teaches us to quiet early.
Creativity. Sensitivity. Wildness.
I wondered if I would recognize those parts in her in time to protect them.
One afternoon, something settled in me.
Not an answer. Just a knowing.
Light.
When she was born, I named her Margot. Pearl.
Years later, at a wedding, she came to me covered in mud—
her white dress undone by play.
She looked up, waiting.
I saw no shame in her.
So I spun her dress around, dirt now on the back side.
“Still perfect,” I told her.
She ran back into the field.
And something in me ran with her.
—Sarah Sides, Founder
III. THE DIAMOND
Three women came into Loveweld one afternoon—
loud, joyful, alive in the freedom of being away.
One of them was visibly pregnant.
She joked about wanting a free diamond, cheeky and sweet,
until her friends wandered off and the moment softened.
When I asked how she was, she paused.
Then told me she had lost a baby the year before.
That this pregnancy carried fear she couldn’t shake.
Some moments shift.
The surface gives way to something real.
I offered her a diamond.
Not as a transaction.
As a marker.
A small reminder that light can exist alongside grief.
Months later, she sent a photo of her son.
She wanted me to see what had come.
—Sarah Sides, Founder
IV. WHAT WE CARRY
She came in with her family—
her mother, her sister, her daughter.
The little girl sat in her lap, requiring more care than most.
But the room didn’t feel heavy.
It felt devoted.
Every movement noticed. Every smile celebrated.
Still, when we spoke, the mother admitted she was nervous.
She was about to see friends for the first time since her daughter was born.
She didn’t feel like the same person.
There was something beneath it.
A quiet shame.
We sat with it.
Then I told her what I saw.
Strength. Devotion. A life reshaped by love.
She softened as she listened.
A year later, I saw her again.
She was glowing.
Some things don’t change all at once.
But they do change.
—Sarah Sides (founder)
The sweetest gifts are the ones you make just for her.
V. PETER
There are moments that divide a life into before and after.
For me, it was a quiet room
and a sentence I wasn’t prepared to hear.
There was no heartbeat.
Grief narrows everything.
Sound. Time. Breath.
In the days that followed,
I found myself remembering something unexpected.
A woman I had met months earlier.
Her loss.
Her laughter.
The way she held both.
At the time, I didn’t understand.
Later, I did.
Sometimes what feels like a passing moment
is something placed ahead of you—
waiting.
—Sarah Sides (founder)
