I was broken when I left my job in 2015. The leaving itself didn’t break me—I’ve never regretted my decision to quit, not for a moment—but my self-confidence did not follow me out.
In the months preceding my departure, some vital piece of my work persona had crumpled. It’s not important what caused the destruction, only that it happened, and more importantly I let it happen; I’d had no idea I was so fragile, which might have been the most disconcerting part.
It was a shocking realization; I’d ostensibly left to more thoroughly pursue my dreams, but I was utterly bewildered because the launch of this new chapter in my life was fueled equally by, “My time is NOW! I'm ready!” and, “When did my heart break into pieces?”
In the months preceding my departure, some vital piece of my work persona had crumpled. It’s not important what caused the destruction, only that it happened, and more importantly I let it happen; I’d had no idea I was so fragile, which might have been the most disconcerting part.
It was a shocking realization; I’d ostensibly left to more thoroughly pursue my dreams, but I was utterly bewildered because the launch of this new chapter in my life was fueled equally by, “My time is NOW! I'm ready!” and, “When did my heart break into pieces?”
This is the story of how WaterMullen and, oddly enough, knitting stitched me back together.
I took up knitting in 2017 because I wanted to spend less time staring at screens. On a snowy December Sunday, I looked up “knitting for beginners” on YouTube (I'm aware of the irony), borrowed some yarn and needles from my mother-in-law, and learned the basics.
I’d bring my fledgling knitting with me lots of places—waiting rooms, on the train, things like that-- and people would sometimes ask how long I’d been doing it, had my grandmother taught me, and I’d say no, I picked it up a few months ago, and they would ask how I'd learned, and I'd say YouTube, and they'd be surprised. The surprise was surprising. Then I’d have to unravel whatever I’d been working on because I’d messed up again, and they would look at me with pity, or a small degree of dread on my behalf, and they’d ask how many times had I started over? I’d think about it as I pulled apart fistfuls of yarn and say a number that was usually between three and twenty. They’d make a face that broadcast, better you than me, and I’d tell them that in addition to keeping me from aimlessly playing on my phone, knitting was really helping me get better at being a failure.
2018 was the year I finally diagnosed 2015-Me with a terminal case of sucking at failing. As soon as I made a mistake, or perceived something I’d done was a mistake, or someone pointed out a mistake I'd made, I crumbled; when I didn’t know how to do something or when I didn’t know ~everything~, I died. Lack of knowledge and mistakes were proof that I was worthless, and worthless things go in the garbage, and the garbage is a lonely, loveless place where I absolutely deserved to be. I'd imprinted these facts on my soul since grade school, and each subsequent tier of education, then jobs, reinforced them. I shudder to remember the pain of each slip-up, like I was always two small steps away from falling on broken glass.
Knitting can be tricky. It’s easy to mess up, especially when you’re first learning. Knitting is forgiving, though, too; starting over is almost always an option. Yarn is very patient as well. It doesn’t leap up to strangle you when you drop a stitch. A knit creation can be riddled with mistakes and still be used, worn, loved. Someone is always on YouTube waiting to show you how to do something, and they’ll repeat the lesson as many times as you want, without censure or side-eye. If you're lucky, your mother-in-law will delight at your efforts, however rudimentary, and say things like, "Och, that sock doesn't need pinky toe. It's fine the way it is." (A sweeter, kinder woman you've never met.)
About eighteen months into my life as a consultant, I took a job that was a big reach for me. I’d known it would be a challenge when I chased the project, though I was (thankfully) too foolish to really understand the breadth of the leap I was taking.
I’ll be honest: there were several distressingly long chunks of time where I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I had to use tools I’d never used before to create something I didn’t have much experience crafting. Thankfully, I had the iron embrace of a contract pulling me towards action: I had to figure that shit out.
I’ll be honest: there were several distressingly long chunks of time where I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I had to use tools I’d never used before to create something I didn’t have much experience crafting. Thankfully, I had the iron embrace of a contract pulling me towards action: I had to figure that shit out.
And the shit did, in fact, get figured. It took me hours upon hours upon hours that I wouldn’t bill for because no client should have to pay for such depth of ignorance. But I figured it out! Through a painstaking process of research, trial and error, video tutorials, answer boards and stupid questions, eventually I got it. There was no cry of “Eureka!” It was the opposite, like a drawn out, pained groan leaking from the mouth of a barely-sentient gob of slime mold.
But I did it! My deliverables were polished, professional, and on time; the massive struggle that birthed them hadn’t left any scars on the final product.
Careworn, sad, broken 2015 me looked up from the scarf she was knitting and said, “Oh...?”
Careworn, sad, broken 2015 me looked up from the scarf she was knitting and said, “Oh...?”
I’m not sure which came first, the knitting or the reach. They happened close enough together that it’s hard for me to untangle effect from cause. Moreover, I didn’t realize the extent of the transformation until maybe a year after the project. I’d learned something ridiculously important, maybe the literal most important lesson ever: I can figure it out. It will take time and a (sometimes seemingly endless) series of mistakes, but I am capable, and now no one can convince me that I am incapable, least of all myself. Curiosity—in fact, reveling in not knowing-- and the pursuit of its satisfaction will keep bread on my table.
People were surprised at self-taught knitting and the unraveling because I've found that the older we get, the harder it is to not be good at things--by which I mean, we have less time to gain additional mastery and less inclination to be a novice all over again, because it might somehow cast doubt on all our past achievements. It’s very uncomfortable to start from zero. I see most of us spending our lives in pursuit of excellence, which is an entirely worthy endeavor, though I've also seen excellence and arrogance go hand in hand--a combination that is the deepest enemy of being good at failing. I am trying hard to be a confident, humble fool. Now that knitting is in my arsenal, it’s time for me to choose a new thing I can fail at repeatedly, to hone my hard-earned skill of being
People were surprised at self-taught knitting and the unraveling because I've found that the older we get, the harder it is to not be good at things--by which I mean, we have less time to gain additional mastery and less inclination to be a novice all over again, because it might somehow cast doubt on all our past achievements. It’s very uncomfortable to start from zero. I see most of us spending our lives in pursuit of excellence, which is an entirely worthy endeavor, though I've also seen excellence and arrogance go hand in hand--a combination that is the deepest enemy of being good at failing. I am trying hard to be a confident, humble fool. Now that knitting is in my arsenal, it’s time for me to choose a new thing I can fail at repeatedly, to hone my hard-earned skill of being
I'm so relieved to know that I'll figure it out.
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