We’ve all had those moments—the ones that seem like mistakes but end up being the best thing that ever happened to us. The unexpected detours, the wrong turns that lead somewhere surprisingly right. My journey with yarn wasn’t a straight path; it was a winding road filled with twists, turns, and the occasional flat tire. But gosh dang, has it been a great trip. And it all started with a simple mix-up.
It hit me the other day—I don’t think I’ve ever properly introduced myself to some of you. Some of you have been here since the very beginning, and others have joined in along the way. And as a result, it probably feels like you walked into the middle of a conversation, with me just charging ahead, assuming everyone knows the backstory. So, let’s rewind.
I was a teenager, excited to start a Parsons pre-college program for photography. I’d always been an artsy kid, but I saw “art” in a very black-and-white way. Painting, photography, and drawing—that was it. It hadn’t occurred to me that even within those categories, there were countless career paths, let alone the fact that art extended far beyond that narrow definition.
Somewhere between check-in and the first session, I ended up in the wrong orientation class. The session I stumbled into was led by—wait for it—Tim Gunn (yes, that Tim Gunn). I should have raised my hand, spoken up, and found my way to the correct room. But I didn’t. Something in me said, stay. So I did.
And thank goodness for that.
His passion for fashion was contagious. I sat there, completely captivated, as he talked about clothing as art, as storytelling, as something designed rather than just something you grabbed off a store rack. I had never thought of fashion that way. It was like someone had cleared away the cobwebs from a path that had been there all along—I just hadn’t seen it.
After orientation, I was hooked. I never switched classes. Instead, I stayed in the fashion session, diving headfirst into a world I hadn’t even known was an option for me.
That happy accident planted a seed—a curiosity about design and creativity that I couldn’t shake. Fast forward to my time studying Fashion Design at SAIC in Chicago, and I found myself struggling. I had so many ideas, but sketching them felt like trying to speak a language I didn’t fully understand. I knew what I wanted to create, but I couldn’t get it onto paper. The frustration was overwhelming.
Then one day, across the room, I noticed my classmate, Jennifer Plumridge, who would later become one of my best friends, quietly knitting. She looked calm. Focused. At peace. And I needed to know her secret.
It turns out, her secret—besides being a genuinely delightful human—was knitting.
The next semester, I enrolled in my first knitwear class and picked up a crochet hook for the first time. And just like that, everything clicked. The frustration melted away. For the first time, I felt like I had found my creative voice. Yarn became my medium, my language—the thing that allowed me to turn ideas into something tangible, something real.
I would later fall in love with knitting, too. But I will forever be grateful to crochet for unlocking the voice inside me.
Looking back, I can’t help but laugh at the fact that a simple mix-up (and a bit of help from Tim Gunn) set me on this path. It makes me wonder—how many of life’s so-called “mistakes” are actually just new beginnings in disguise?
So, tell me—what was your moment? When did you fall in love with making? Drop your story in the comments—I’d love to hear it.
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