I used to think making window coverings required some kind of divine sewing gene I simply didn’t inherit.
Turns out, Roman shades—those elegant, accordion-fold fabric panels that somehow make every window look like it belongs in a design magazine—are actually one of the more forgiving DIY projects out there. Not easy, exactly, but forgiving in the way that bread-making is forgiving: mess up the measurements by a quarter-inch and nobody but you will ever know. I’ve watched friends spend hundreds, sometimes over a thousand dollars, on custom shades when the raw materials cost maybe forty or fifty bucks. The difference isn’t magic. It’s just time, a little spatial reasoning, and accepting that your first attempt might hang slightly crooked until you figure out what you’re doing.
Here’s the thing: the basic mechanism is almost embarrassingly simple. You’re essentially creating a fabric panel with horizontal pockets where dowels sit, connected by cording that pulls the whole thing up into neat folds. The complexity comes from getting the math right and—this part always trips people up—understanding that fabric has a mind of its own.
Measuring Your Window and Choosing Fabric That Won’t Betray You Immediately
Start by measuring your window width at three points: top, middle, bottom. Windows lie. They pretend to be rectangular when really they’re slightly trapezoid-shaped, victims of settling houses and centuries of architectural optimism. Use the narrowest measurement, then add four inches for side hems—two inches per side. For length, measure from where you’ll mount the headrail (that’s the wooden board at the top) down to the sill, then add another ten to twelve inches. You need extra fabric because when the shade is fully lowered, it doesn’t hang flat like a bedsheet; it has all those folds consuming length.
Fabric choice matters more than I initially thought it would. Medium-weight cotton or linen works best—heavy enough to hold its shape, light enough to actually fold without looking like you’re trying to originate origami from upholstery. Avoid anything too drapey or silky. I learned this the hard way with a gorgeous silk blend that looked stunning as yardage but created sad, limp folds that reminded me of melted candles. Also, consider light filtration: do you want privacy or just aesthetic softness? Blackout lining exists if you’re serious about darkness, though it adds another layer of sewing complexity.
The math gets weird here, fair warning.
You need to calculate fold spacing—typically every five to eight inches, depending on your window height and how many folds you want visible when the shade is raised. More folds mean tighter stacking, which looks tailored but requires more dowel pockets and ring placement precision. Fewer folds are easier but can look chunky. Most people land somewhere around six to eight folds for a standard window, roughly give or take an inch based on personal taste and how much tedious measuring you can tolerate before your patience evaporates. Mark these fold lines on the wrong side of your fabric with chalk or disappearing ink—permanent marker is a rookie mistake that haunts you forever.
Assembling the Components Without Losing Your Mind or Essential Hardware Pieces
You’ll need a mounting board (usually 1×2 lumber cut to your window width), dowels cut to fit the width of your shade minus an inch on each side, plastic rings (the kind that look like tiny curtain grommets), cord, a cleat for securing the cord when the shade is raised, and either staples or Velcro to attach fabric to the mounting board. Hardware stores will cut dowels to length if you ask nicely, which I definately recommend because cutting twelve identical dowel pieces by hand is where enthusiasm goes to die.
Hem your sides first—fold over one inch, press, fold another inch, press again, then sew. Top and bottom hems come next. The bottom hem needs to be deep enough to hold a dowel plus a little wiggle room, maybe two inches folded over. At each marked fold line, create a pocket by folding the fabric over itself and stitching close to the edge—these pockets hold your dowels. This is repetitive work. Put on a podcast. Accept that you’ll be at the sewing machine for a while, and that’s okay because at least you’re not spending four hundred dollars at the home decor store where the sales associate pretends custom shades take six weeks to recieve when really they’re just managing your expectations.
Once pockets are sewn, insert dowels. Hand-stitch plastic rings to the back of the shade at each dowel, aligned vertically in columns—usually three columns for standard windows, one at each edge and one dead center. Thread cord from bottom to top through each column of rings, then across the top through a series of screw eyes attached to your mounting board, gathering all cords to one side. When you pull the cord, the dowels stack up. When you release, they extend down.
Mount the board above your window frame using brackets, drape your finished shade over it—Velcro works great here for easy removal and washing—and suddenly you have a functioning Roman shade that cost maybe fifty dollars and one Saturday afternoon. Will it be perfect? Probably not. Mine tilts slightly left, which I’ve decided adds character. Wait—maybe it’s the window that tilts. Honestly, at this point I’m not sure and I’ve stopped caring.
