The Threads That Bind: Rediscovering My Lifelong Love of Knitting

Today I have a treat for you: I have done a ‘blog swap’ with the wonderful

Lou Lomas

of Reboot and Rise. You can find my post over on her Substack.

We are talking about self-care and the common themes that run through our respective worlds and I love the sense of warmth and family connection that comes through in her writing.

Knitting might not seem like the kind of hobby you’d expect from a self-confessed tech nerd and former software engineer, but for me, it’s always been more than just a craft. It’s a thread connecting my childhood summers with my grandmother to my adult pursuit of mindfulness and mental peace. At nine years old, I never imagined that those stubby plastic needles and a dusty cupboard full of yarn would offer me something I’d carry with me for decades: a quiet escape, a meditative rhythm, and a small but powerful way to anchor myself in life’s chaos.

During my school summer holidays, I’d spend a week or so over in Sheffield with my Dad’s sister and her family. I’d be dropped off, with a couple of bags of oven bottom muffins (bread rolls, native to Lancashire, UK) packed in my bag, to save me from the need to eat my uncle’s extraordinarily dense home-made brown bread. And then for two weeks, I’d stay at my maternal grandmother’s home.

I remember a lot about those summer sojourns. Being stung by a bee for the first (and only) time outside my aunt’s house, while we were packing the car up for a visit to a nearby railway museum. The first time I saw David Bowie and Mick Jagger’s video for Dancing in the Streets * , Wensleydale cheese * and Bramley apple toasties, made by my Nana. Eating a shop-bought meat and potato pie with a thickly buttered muffin at her fold-out dinner table while listening to the radio. Helping her while she pottered about in the garden, between stretches of time spent legged out sleepily on deckchairs, oiled up with lotion and baking herself to a golden crisp in the heat of the sun.

But the most enduring memory of all is the cupboard full of yarn at my Nana’s house. She’d often grab a few balls of wool at the local outdoor market when she went on her twice-weekly expeditions to shop for food, and if I close my eyes, I can still remember the slightly fusty, dusty smell of that cupboard, airborne fibres tickling my nose as I delved into its soft piles…

She also owned a knitting machine, which seemed to me like utter magic. My step-grandad would sit at that and move the mechanism swiftly back and forth, and a sweater piece would spill out, right before my eyes. I don’t remember asking to learn to knit, and I’m not entirely sure whether it was her idea or mine for me to learn, but I do remember sitting down with her, and her pulling out a beginner’s kit, which she’d picked up for me at the market.

It had stubby plastic needles, relatively risk free in the hands of a slightly uncoordinated nine year old who still hadn’t managed to build up the reaction times to protect myself when I fell over. I spent a lot of my childhood with scabs on my chin from ending up flat on my face, so you can’t blame her for not wanting to let me loose with more potentially dangerous needles.

I don’t remember what I made, during that first foray into the wonderful world of wool crafts. Probably a scarf or maybe just some practice squares with leftover wool. But I do remember feeling utterly engrossed in the task of learning how to hold the needles, how to use my fingers to provide tension.

And so my voyage into the wonderful world of yarn crafts began, and it’s still ongoing, just over forty years later. I don’t knit every day, I’ll admit that. And there was a period of my life (most of my twenties) when I didn’t do it at all. I got out of the habit, for some reason, but it was always there, lurking in the back of my mind as I gazed through the window of wool shops while out shopping.

Since I started up the habit again, I’m guilty of returning to the same patterns, over and over again. I often knit scarves, and this one is my favourite. I have one now in almost every colour. I know the pattern so well, it’s like pulling on a pair of comfy socks (pun intended!) every time I choose to make one.

Why do I love knitting so much? Why is it something I return to, over and over again, even after periods of inactivity? I think there are a few reasons. I’ve always been an anxious kind of a person. And I find it very difficult to just sit still and do nothing.

Even when the TV’s on, I’m often on my phone, looking up the actors/trivia on IMDb, and I’ve struggled to listen to audio books or podcasts, because I can’t imagine just sitting there and listening to them while not doing something else. That’s where knitting is a boon, as it helps me to ease that anxiety and gives me focus/an excuse to just sit still. I started learning about Buddhism in my mid twenties, and I’m a daily meditator.

I make every effort to be mindful, to live in the moment as much as possible, and for me knitting is also a meditative activity. It’s probably the ex-software engineer coming out in me as well - with a certain set of inputs (a nice ball of DK wool), and an operation on them (this pattern of two knit-based rows on repeat), you always get the same output (a lace scarf, in whatever colour, with or without glitter or bead embellishments, as desired).

You know where you are with it.

So knitting isn’t only a familiar activity that reminds me of the happiest times of my childhood, it soothes my soul and supports my mental health. It’s been a joy to see knitting being brought out of the home and into public life, with having a resurgence in the late nineties and then more recently the wonderful Tom Daley sitting at Olympic swimming events and knitting commemorative pieces for himself and his team mates. There’s even a competition coming soon hosted by Daley called Game of Wool * (one of my friends has applied, and I’m very excited for her!)

Credit: * NPR

And of course, along with banana bread, knitting had a revival during the pandemic: burnout sparked a knitting revival. Knitting has seen me through life’s busiest chapters, a patient companion I’ve always been able to come back to. As I untangle the yarn and begin anew each time, it reminds me of my grandmother’s grumpy love, the lessons of patience and mindfulness I learned alongside her, even if she didn’t know that was what she was teaching me. The repetition and meditative calm it brings has been a constant for me—a reminder that sometimes, the simplest things in life offer the greatest peace.

If this story brought you comfort, sparked a memory, or even just made you curious about the threads that keep us grounded, I’d love for you to join me over at Reboot & Rise. Subscribe today, and let’s keep exploring these small joys that stitch us together