The Hidden Costs of Cheap Manufacturing: A Personal Story

Most of the time, our blog posts are written by our (amazing!) team here at Kindly Woven. But today’s post is different. It comes directly from our founder and creative director, Laura Adams.

This story is deeply personal—and it’s one of the driving forces behind everything we do at Kindly Woven. We’re honored to share her words with you.

—The Kindly Woven Team

It was a Friday.
I remember that, because I had come to hate Fridays.

I’d just walked into my office after laying off people from my team—people I cared about. People who had given a part of their lives to this place. I sat at my desk, numb, staring out the window toward the guard house at the entrance of the mill, the favorite mill I’ve ever worked at, if you’re wondering.

Then I saw him.

A man in his late 60s, maybe older, shoulders slumped, a small cardboard box in his arms. His wife’s car idled at the gate, waiting to take him home. He stepped into the passenger seat, and I’m almost certain he was crying. 

I know I was.

Even now, all these years later, I can still cry over the memory of it.

The Heartbeat of a Town

It hadn’t always been like that.

Just a few years earlier, I’d walked into that mill for the first time, bright-eyed, eager, thrilled to be joining a booming player in the interiors market. From day one, it was a trial by fire. But we were an incredible company. Our creative team designed hundreds of fabrics a year, sat across the table from clients month after month, and traveled to shows where we watched our ideas come to life in the showrooms of the world’s most respected brands.

It was the best job I’d ever had—working for someone else.

This small mill, tucked into the foothills of the North Carolina mountains, was the heartbeat of a working town, full of hardworking families who showed up every day and took pride in what they built. It had been there for nearly 150 years, employing thousands, weaving history into everything it touched. Blankets for soldiers in both World Wars. Upholstery for cars now considered rare classics. And when I joined, its focus had shifted to large-scale interiors and automotive production.

At our mill, coworkers were more like family. The same people you stood next to on the production floor, you’d see at church on Sunday. At the grocery store. At Friday night football games.

Those buildings—massive, brick, with floor-to-ceiling windows and creaking wooden floors—housed more than machines. They held generations. Families. Livelihoods. The men and women inside didn’t just make fabric. They made futures for their families. They fed their children. Paid mortgages. Sent kids to college. Lived with pride in their work.

It was something worth being a part of. And honestly, I never wanted it to end.

The Unraveling

But it did end.

And even though the rest of the country barely flinched, it mattered. It mattered deeply to the families I knew, including my own.

NAFTA swept through like a cancer. It didn’t just kill jobs. It took down entire communities. Yarn suppliers. Mills. Farms. Whole towns that once thrived began to erode. It was slow and inevitable and cruel.

In my role over the design department, I saw the financials. I remember staring at a cost sheet for a new product line and realizing: we couldn’t even purchase yarn for the price that overseas mills could make, ship, and sell an entire finished good to the U.S., with a profit.

It defied logic.

How could a company that had done everything right, that had built its legacy on fairness, community, and care, lose money with every yard it sold, just for daring to keep making what they loved making, in America?

The Personal Toll

I saw it all slip away, month after month. I stayed until I couldn’t anymore—until the emotional toll showed up in my body. 

Yet, I couldn’t forget that man in his late 60s, standing there with a small box in his hands. I could still see his wife’s car waiting at the gate. It looked like my grandparent’s car. I remembered the way he walked—slow and heavy, like something inside him had given out. And a fire began to burn inside me.

My turn came soon enough. One by one, the other mills I worked with started closing too. Eventually, I stopped keeping track of how many times the rug got pulled out from under me. That was just how it was then—when a mill shut down, everything disappeared with it.

It was brutal.

For people like us who showed up ready to work, who wanted to build something tangible, losing it all wasn’t just about the job. It was devastating. Humiliating. The kind of loss that shakes more than your income. It takes your pride, your footing, your sense of place. It makes you question your worth. Makes everything you gave feel like it didn’t count. And it doesn’t just happen to one person—it happens to whole communities, all at once.

What Made in the USA Really Means

This is why Made in the USA is not a slogan for us at Kindly Woven. It’s a promise. It’s a defiant act of care.

I know it won’t be easy. I know it takes time. But we are committed to doing everything in our power to ensure that the products we create and any collaborations we take on are Made in the USA from start to finish.

Because I’ve seen what’s possible when people are given meaningful work. When the things they create are valued. When what they make is passed down, shared, and treasured.

And to those who say, “Well, US manufacturing is dead. It’s too expensive. It’s never coming back,” I want to gently remind you: there is a price for that line of thinking.

Your country pays it. Your neighbors pay it. Your children’s friends pay it. And far away, someone else pays for it too, with their time, their safety, and their freedom.

You might not see it. But that doesn’t remove it. It’s there.

The truth is:
People want their dignity back.
Their hope.
Opportunity.

When we offer someone meaningful work, we impact their whole family. And when families are strong, communities rebuild.

Let’s return to the places that have been forgotten. Let’s invest in them. Let’s believe in them. Let’s make beautiful, lasting things that people are proud to create and proud to own.

That’s why I believe in this work.

Because I’ve seen what happens when we stop valuing the hands that built this country. And I refuse to let that story be the ending.

Join us and the new future we’re weaving—together.

If this story resonates with you, we’d love to stay in touch. Sign up for our newsletter to follow our journey and see how we’re keeping American craftsmanship alive, one piece at a time.