Moving forward, one stitch at a time

I still remember the day my world fell apart. Before the big C word took up residence in my vocabulary, I was a whirlwind of productivity. I managed companies, penned books, and secured grants for organizations. I measured my worth purely in achievements, stacking them up like an ever-growing tower. I’d become a complete go-getter with so much ambition and drive.

Then cancer changed my life, pulling the rug out from under me. My career became a casualty, and my self-worth dwindled to almost nothing. I couldn't keep up the frantic pace I once maintained, and the loss of purpose and meaning threatened to drown me. On a scale of capabilities, I’d fallen from a hundred down to zero, where my most incredible—and often sweat-inducing—task of the day might be locating a matching pair of socks or successfully cooking dinner without only making it halfway through.

My point of view, however, recently changed—and in the most unexpected way—after meeting an incredible woman at our local synagogue. She doesn’t just own a yarn store; she practically inspires the whole town to love yarn. She’s a vibrant, perpetually contented woman whose hands are never idle. She’s always armed with knitting meedles, her fingers flying with a serene, near-mythic speed. I've visited her a few times, and we've talked about everything from modern life to ancient religion. During one conversation as I watched her knit a gorgeous sweater, I remembered how much I used to love crocheting with my grandma.

“There’s a knitting and crocheting  group,” the woman said, her eyes twinkling as she wound a skein of gray yarn. “We meet every Sunday.” I wondered what they called themselves and came up with all sorts of silly names in my head: Knotty by Nature club, Hookers by Day, The Loose Ends, Knit Happens!

And so, after years of dismissing crocheting as a hobby I wouldn't enjoy, I finally dusted off an old crochet hook and pulled out some yarn. 

Its been weeks, and now, my youngest daughter, Indy, and I go to the knitting and crochet group together. It’s a weekly expedition into a world I never knew existed, and I’m surprised by what an utterly hilarious and heartwarming adventure this has become.

The group is a mix of ages and backgrounds, held hostage by their mutual love of knots. There’s Mary, who weaves hot pads, and Crystal who makes the best socks in the world. Clarice works at a hospital—and although I've never asked, I heard she’s a doctor who enjoys crocheting the shell stitch in her spare time, following patterns as if she’s sewing up a wound.

Somehow, these ladies, with their needles clacking like frantic chopsticks, reminded me that life isn't about the grand, headline-grabbing achievements I used to crave; it's about connection—offering love and kindness in a world that can be painfully lonely.

Anyway, last Thursday, I visited my friend at her yarn store. I found her feeling out the texture of a new shipment of yarn, and she told me a powerful story about how she went completely blind her senior year of high school, yet she refused to let that loss define her life. 

While attaining her college degree, she learned to knit, relying purely on touch, and eventually opened her business, proving that sight is not a prerequisite for vision. I listened, mesmerized, as she described the initial difficulty—the frustration of failed stitches and uneven rows—and then the flood of passion ahead felt, discovering a new kind of purpose.

“Why do you enjoy it so much?” I asked, nestled into a comfortable love seat at her shop.

But she didn't respond right away, and instead, her fingers traced the delicate pattern of a knit scarf. “It gives me a sense of accomplishment,” she finally said simply, and her words hit home.

I kept thinking about her insight that night, and I felt somehow lighter. Though cancer treatments often make life almost unbearable—and on days it can feel tough to even leave my bed, I realized I can sometimes still crochet, even lying down! This wasn’t a grant proposal or a book launch, but it was just as fulfillling. This felt like a small, quiet win, a piece of worth I could forge for myself, one repetitive loop at a time.

So, I recently finished a cat outfit—my first semi-nice project—and gave it to my oldest daughter, Ruby, for her kitty. Seeing the genuine joy on her face, I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment, not because I’d done something to further my own ambitions but because I’d made my daughter happy.

In that moment, my grandmother’s quiet wisdom echoed in my mind: “Everything changes. The trick is to keep looking for what makes life worthwhile.”

Right now, that’s creating small, slightly lopsided gifts for my kids and knowing that I still have a place in this world. We don’t always need huge victories. Sometimes, the greatest accomplishment should simply be that we’re here, still moving forward, one hopeful stitch at a time.