Life quietly pulls us back to where we're meant to be. It may not always be in the way we expect it, but often in the way we need it. It can take years of detours and rewritten chapters that feel entirely disconnected to realize that the thread's been there all along, subtly pulling us back. I find myself today standing in a familiar place that feels entirely new: a yarn store. At the age of fourteen, I spent my days stocking shelves, winding yarn, and untangling that occasional yarn blob that looked more like modern art than fiber. Now, returning to a new shop over fifteen years later feels less like a coincidence and more like coming home to a part of myself I had been missing for a long time.
At fourteen, I was surrounded by fiber and completely overwhelmed. I remember the bursts of color stacked from floor to ceiling, the rhythmic click of needles, but mostly, feeling like an outsider looking in. Everyone around me spoke fluent knit and purl. It was a language I couldn't even begin to stutter. Despite my genuine interest, the sheer volume of knowledge and the effortless grace of experienced crafters left me feeling… small. The intricacies, endless possibilities, and fear of doing it "wrong" made the hobby feel impossible to start.
It wasn't exactly love at first stitch for me. When I slowly (and clumsily) began to knit, it sparked something in my grandmother, who had set her needles aside decades earlier. Knitting became something we returned to together. We had no finished objects to share, but we had all the love, laughs, and the moments that bridged the years between us and brought us closer. I still hold onto the scarf she was working on when she passed away- the unfinished project that carries the most weight. Somehow, the thought of picking up her needles feels both sacred and daunting.
Over the next fifteen years, my knitting needles and ever-growing yarn stash became loyal, but neglected, companions. They traveled with me through countless moves- including the most recent from North Carolina to Wisconsin. Knitting was the hobby I kept returning to with renewed excitement, convinced each time I'd see a project through. However, more often than not, the needles would find their way back to the shelf, and the half-finished objects got quietly tucked away, breaking the promise of completion. Even so, I never let go of it completely.
Things feel different this time around. It could be the years of life experience, a shift in perspective, or the genuine encouragement from my new community. Whatever the reason, I'm finally learning to listen to my own rhythm as a maker. I've always been a slow-paced thinker, someone who likes to consider each step carefully, and make calculated moves. My tendency toward perfectionism used to feel like a roadblock, but I’m finally learning to see it as part of my process. I'm embracing the gradual unfolding of a project and finding quiet satisfaction in each little detail. I find myself surrounded by the vibrant energy of fellow makers and a supportive community eager to share their knowledge and the initial intimidation has melted away. This wonderful community is gently nudging me back into the rhythm of the needles, reigniting a creative joy that had been dormant for too long.
I don’t feel the need to rush to finish a project or compare my progress to others. Instead, I'm savoring the journey, from the initial choice of yarn to the final bind-off (when the time comes). The mistakes don't feel like failures anymore; they're just part of the story. Even with a constant influx of new yarns that have me itching to cast on a dozen new projects, I like to focus on the one in my hands. I'm finally leaning into my who I am and letting go of the pressure to be a particular kind of maker.
This journey back to making isn't about speed or flawless execution. It's about staying true to myself, acknowledging my own pace, and celebrating the small victories. It's about embracing the changes life throws our way and finding the commonalities that connect our past, present, and future selves.
So, if you're a maker feeling overwhelmed, or perhaps someone who keeps returning to a craft only to set it aside, know that you're not alone. Listen to that quiet voice within, the one that feels the connection, even if the execution feels daunting. Embrace your own pace, celebrate the progress, no matter how small, and trust the gentle unspooling of your creative journey. You never know where it might lead you- maybe even full circle, back to a place where joy and inspiration await.
-Lily
