Crochet is not a hobby. Crochet is a beautiful descent into madness disguised as a wholesome craft. It’s what happens when your therapist is booked out, your ex is posting thirst traps, and capitalism has left your soul brittle—so instead of screaming, you start a scarf.
At first, it’s cute. A ball of yarn. A hook. A dream. A false sense of control.
Then it begins: the obsessive counting, the blood sacrifice to the Gauge Gods, the whispering of ancient curses when your pattern says “repeat row 3” but you lost row 3 in a blackout rage two nights ago, when you were watching White Lotus and get side tracked.
Your first project? A lumpy dishcloth that looks like it survived a fire. You show it to a friend. They say “It’s cute!” You hear the lie. You smile anyway. Because you need this win. You haven’t felt joy since 2019.
The yarn stash grows. At first it fits in a drawer. Then a tote bag. Then a small room. You’ve started referring to colours like “decay green” and “emotional support beige.” You hide skeins in weird places like an addict stashing pills—inside boots, cereal boxes, your soul.
And yet… you keep going.
You frog entire projects while making unbroken eye contact with the void. You drop stitches like existential metaphors. Your fingers cramp. Your spine screams. Your eyes blur. But it’s fine. You need this misshapen granny square to hold the unbearable weight of your internal chaos.
You watch YouTube tutorials at 1am. You whisper “magic ring” like it’s a forbidden spell. You join Facebook groups where people argue over fibre content with the passion of medieval crusaders. You now have Opinions™ about tension. You think about yarn more than you think about sex. Possibly more than you think about food.
And the worst part? You love it. Because when the world is an endless doom spiral, crochet is the one place you can still make sense of things—even if that “sense” is just a sad little hat that fits no human head and may, in fact, be cursed. (Don’t worry, I left it on a church doorstep)
And if you’re gay, neurospicy, depressed, or recovering from a situationship with a man who “wasn’t ready for a relationship” but miraculously is now with someone else—welcome. You’re in the right place. We’re the soft, stabby little family you didn’t know you needed.
Here, perfection is a myth, therapy is a hook, and love is a lumpy blanket you made during a breakdown.
