How to knit when you keep dropping stitches

(In Life and Yarn)

Dropping stitches can be a very frustrating occurrence, and it happens to every knitter. It happens to me more often than most as I tend to “sleep knit”, as my family calls it. I will share more on that silly little habit of mine another time.

Dropping a stitch is the easy part—it doesn’t really require much effort. The stitch just slips off the needle or sneaks past your attention. It happens quite uneventfully, with no fanfare or spotlight drawing your attention most of the time. The real work begins when you try to find the lost stitch or, worse, discover the ladder of unraveling stitches after the fact. The first time you correct it, you might have sweaty palms, a racing pulse, and an overwhelming sense of “Can this be fixed? Can I be the one to fix it?”

The answer to both is: yes, you can.

I feel now much like I did the first time I dropped a stitch and had to fix it on my own—no supervision, no real-life knitting pal to coach me through, and no YouTube video to watch. (Can I really be that old or have been knitting that long? It would seem so...) The dropped stitch feels like a metaphor for my inconsistency in keeping up with this lovely community we’ve built. The past few years have been a series of fits and starts for me. There have been some tough times, and I’ve needed to pick up and rework my own stitches—sometimes big sections and other times those random little ones that leave behind a long ladder to rebuild.

Instead of glossing over the hard things, I thought I’d quickly share something personal so it doesn’t feel like a taboo subject. My father passed away a year ago. I’m not sure why that’s been so difficult to share. Maybe it’s because I’ve always seen myself as the “encouraging friend” and added the (completely unnecessary) asterisk that I can’t have a bad day. That expectation came from me, not from anyone in this community.

I knew my dad was sick and had planned to fly out to see him. He passed away two days before my flight.

Grief is weird—frustrating, embarrassing, and isolating. And for me, I made it even harder by keeping it to myself. I’m still grieving his loss, my missed opportunity, and other things that have happened over the past two years.

The other day, as I was fixing a dropped stitch on a sweater, I had a moment of clarity. First, let me explain the knitting situation, because I know you’ll get it: I’m knitting the softest, most wonderful sweater! I’m holding together (1) a strand of baby suri alpaca and mulberry silk and (2) a strand of Falkland merino and Corriedale blend. These two strands create a light, lovely fabric that’s delightfully fuzzy—but also makes it hard to see the stitches clearly.

As I admired the fabric, I noticed an extra little space—one I hadn’t planned for when I designed this pattern. 😆 Long story short: one strand of sticky yarn had made a run for it, while its partner obscured the path with its lovely (but frustrating) fuzzy halo. I had to move to the breakfast table, turn on an extra light, and carefully work the faulty stitch back into the groove to set things right for smoother knitting ahead.

It took a bit more time and a lot more patience than I had anticipated, kind of like the last couple years for me.

There’s probably a better, more eloquent transition here, but I just want to spit this out: I saddled myself with the incorrect notion that I couldn’t be sad or share anything other than upbeat, “encouraging” posts and podcast episodes. That mindset made it harder and harder for me to do the things that bring me joy. It wasn’t your expectations—it was mine. And they were way off base and quite crippling.

I don’t need to dig into or share every nuance of the sad things to feel better. I just needed to be honest: I hit a bump, dropped a stitch, lost a bit of happiness, and sometimes even felt guilty for experiencing joy in the midst of it all. I hope this makes sense.

The good news is that I’ve been writing, knitting, and even recording a lot during this outwardly quiet time. I want to share those things with you—and share them for me, too.

I’m looking forward to moving forward with you—to enjoying the knitting we do together and cherishing the community we’ve developed.

Thankful for you,

Mel

I hope you will take a moment now to leave a comment, and even offer some ideas as to what you are hoping to read or hear that would be helpful and useful to YOU!