Hook, Yarn, Repeat

When I was around ten years old, my grandmother taught me how to crochet. The lesson itself was simple - just making a long change of stitches, frogging them and starting again. I absolutely love it! From there, I taught myself other stitches before setting the hobby down when I was in high school. 

In my late twenties, I picked the hobby back up again. It was on a whim after seeing a hat that I loved and had the random thought, “I could totally make that for myself”. I did make myself the hat, along with many other hats, and added animals to my pattern library. I tried my hand at blankets and scarves, but quickly realized I didn’t have the patience for repeating the same pattern and colors over and over. Somewhere in my mid to late thirties, I set crochet aside again after the pressure of “monetizing” my hobby became too much and drained all the fun out of it.

A few weeks ago, I was hanging out with Sam, my eight-year-old niece. One of the things I love most about her is her complete lack of filter and her willingness to say exactly what’s on her mind, wherever we may be. Out of nowhere, she announced that I should start a crochet club at her school. She had the whole thing planned—twice a week after school, held in the gym, because the activities room “wouldn’t be big enough.”

When I asked her why she thought I should do that, she enthusiastically replied, “Because you’re really good at it! You’ve made stuffed animals—my owl, my unicorn, even Baby Yoda.” Then she added the best part: “And as a bonus, I’d get to crochet and hang out with you.”

Before continuing, it’s important to know one more thing about Sam: she is fascinated by the idea of things being passed down through families. Over the past year, we’ve had many conversations about inherited objects, traditions, and skills. That, combined with her excitement about crochet, planted a seed.

I had absolutely no intention of picking crochet back up. About a year ago, I destashed nearly all of my yarn: roughly 150–200 skeins. I kept my hooks only because I couldn’t find them at the time. Most of my finished pieces had been gifted away, and any scraps worth saving were recycled. Starting again would mean starting from nothing. And in this economy? No one has time for that.

But isn’t that how some of the best hobbies work? You’re sure you’re finished with them… and then they quietly find their way back to you.

After that conversation with Sam, I realized how much I missed crocheting. I missed sitting on the couch while binge-watching shows or listening to audiobooks. I missed having something to do with my hands that didn’t involve doom-scrolling or taking up much space. So I decided to start crocheting again.

Not only that—I decided to document it.

One of my favorite parts of any hobby is recording the process, so I’ve chosen to add another journal to my 2026 (and beyond) journal stack: a crochet journal.

The same grandmother who taught me to crochet was also a seamstress. After she passed, I remember wishing I had something that documented her work—not every project, necessarily, but the patterns she loved, the notes she made, the modifications she used. There is something incredibly special about having a tangible record of someone’s process and progress.

That’s what this journal will be.

It will document the projects I make, patterns I love, and the yarns I use. One of my favorite hats—the one I wear constantly—is beginning to show its age. I’d love to remake it, but while I think I still have the pattern, I have no idea what yarn I used. This journal will make sure that doesn’t happen again.

Someday, this journal will be given to Sam. I don’t know when—but it feels right that it eventually becomes hers. She’s the one who sparked this idea. She reminded me how much I love creating fiber art, and I love the thought of leaving her something that shows my process, my progress, and the things I hope to make along the way.

So this journal and project are dedicated to her.

May you always remember how incredibly smart, magnetic, creative, empathetic, caring, and loving you are. You are the best part of my life, and I am endlessly grateful to get to be your (cool) aunt.

A Year in Notebooks

 I’ve kept some form of a journal for most of my life, but in recent years my practice has expanded beyond a single notebook. What started as a place to write my thoughts and dreams has become a collection of journals, each with its own role. Together, they help me capture and remember different parts of my life.

Daily Journal:
I’ve been keeping a journal since I was 15. It’s become a constant companion, always within arm’s reach, so I can brain-dump anything that’s on my mind. I use it to document trips I’ve taken, nights out with friends, weird things my pets have done, and to work through periods when my mental health is in the toilet. Some entries are more meaningful than others; some are simply observations of a relatively ordinary life.

List Journal:
I love a good list. They end up in the margins of planners and scattered throughout my journals. While that gives me space to remember things in the moment, those lists usually get lost once the planners and journals are archived—and I’m not one to revisit completed notebooks. That’s why I started a list journal. It’s a place to keep track of everything I want to remember that doesn’t quite live anywhere else: trails I want to hike in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, plants for my witchy garden, dishes I want to make, my ideal relationship and partner, and this year, a section for my favorites of 2026.

Media Journal:
For the last few years, I’ve kept a reading journal. I loved having a space to track everything I read, but over time, I realized I also wanted a place to keep track of more than the books I have read. I wanted to track the TV shows I’ve watched, movies I’ve seen, and even the video games I have played. I’m hopeful it will help me to remember what I’ve read and watched, but I am also curious to see how I consume media throughout the year—what holds my attention, what I abandon, and what I keep coming back to.

Tarot Journal:
One of my goals for 2026 is to return to my tarot practice. It’s a big part of my spiritual life, but it often gets pushed aside for other, more exciting pursuits. This year, I’m committing to a daily draw. Each morning, I’ll pull a single card to help guide my day and strengthen my ability to read the cards. This isn’t going to be anything fancy—I’ll be using the weekly, preprinted planner to track which suits I draw and jotting down a sentence or two about each card’s meaning.

Weaver Tarot Journal:
Alongside my daily draw, I’m starting a dedicated tarot notebook. This will hold deck studies and any readings I do outside of my daily pulls—full moon spreads, new moon spreads, random check-ins, and more. It’s a space devoted entirely to deepening my tarot knowledge.

Commonplace Journal:
I’ve inadvertently been keeping a commonplace notebook for years. It holds notes from webinars, song lyrics I love, quotes, and magazine clippings that felt important but didn’t have a home. I don’t work in this notebook often, but I love knowing it’s there as part of the lineup.

One of my favorite things about journaling is how personal it can be. From the notebooks we choose to the themes they hold, it gives us another outlet for expression and creativity. I’d love to know—what does your journal or notebook collection look like? Are there any journaling projects you’re planning for this year?

In Praise of the Blank Page

 There’s an ongoing joke in the journal, writing, and planner communities that the perfect notebook—the right planner, the ideal system, the whole carefully curated ecosystem—will solve all of our problems.

And honestly? I’m a firm believer that this is completely accurate.

I have a bookshelf full of notebooks. Some are completely filled. Some are half-finished. Some were started, abandoned, and later returned to—pages ripped out along the way. And some are still sitting there in their original plastic wrap, untouched and full of promise.

There’s something about a fresh piece of paper that opens up an entire world of possibilities. It gives us a place to express ourselves, to work through the thoughts, ideas, and opinions constantly noodling around in our heads. It’s a space where we’re allowed to be free. There are very few places in the world that feel like that anymore.

I wrote my first short story in third grade. I’m fairly certain it was ripped off from a TV show (I can’t tell you which one, so maybe it’s fine?). I remember there was a diner involved, and people were trapped because the bridge was out. Beyond that, the details are fuzzy. What I do remember is sitting at the kitchen table, writing it out by hand—my eight-year-old handwriting oversized and uneven, with more spelling mistakes than correctly spelled words.

I wrote it in blue pen, because even then, writing in pen felt more official. Pencil was childish. Pencil meant you could erase your mistakes—when sometimes your mistakes were the best thing you’d written.

After that, I filled notebook after notebook. The ones bought for school were quietly repurposed for creativity. Margins were packed with story ideas, character names, and half-formed plots. Sometimes there were full character profiles. Side note: if someone wanted to pay me just to develop fictional characters, I would be the happiest person alive.

The summer I turned fifteen was when I wrote in my first official journal. I’d had others before, but they never lasted. Most were thrown away along with the rest of my childhood clutter. At fifteen, though, I committed.

That journal became my safe space. It was where I would go to work through depression and anxiety—both of which ran deep and loud. I wrote out conversations I wished I’d had with friends and family. I worked out the things I wanted to say but couldn’t get my brain and voice to connect. It was where standing up for myself might have gone, if I’d known how to do it then.

That was 30 years ago.

When I look at notebooks now, I still feel that same sense of freedom. I still feel that sense of relief having a place to write down all the ideas, thoughts, worries, and dreams. Even with decades of filled pages and shelves crowded with notebooks, I still believe in the possibilities provided by a new notebook and a blank page. It gives me a place to store everything - The mess. The questions. The things that feel too big to hold in my head alone. I still believe that everything can be changed with the right notebook. It does so quietly and steadily, giving shape to what would otherwise spill everywhere, rather than in a grand, cinematic sense.

A blank page still provides us with space to be unfinished in a world that rarely does.