My attitude to sustainability, in terms of both my knitting and clothing in general, snuck up on me to be honest. One minute I was happily casting on a ribbed beanie with a half-price acrylic blend. The next, I was squinting at care labels in the fitting room like some kind of wool detective. These days, every shop-bought knit gets mentally deconstructed: could I make it? Would I want to? Is the yarn ethical, or is it secretly 90% plastic and empty promises?

What started with my handknits has spilled into the rest of my wardrobe too – jeans, t-shirts, socks (yes, even the underwear drawer isn’t safe). If I’m not making it, I want to know who did, how and why. It’s developed into a practice of curiosity and care. Like knitting itself, really.

It’s got me thinking about the ways in which we can extend our sustainability to all the different elements of knitting as a hobby – the sourcing of yarn (both in terms of fibre and the purveyor), the making of the garment, all the way through to the long-term care and potential recycling. And here’s what I came up with…

WIPs – why we start (and subsequently stall)

A seasoned knitter will know this scene very well. A basket brimming full with beautiful beginnings. A neckline here, half a sock there, that mohair number you swore you’d finish last spring. But somehow, the call of a new cast-on always wins you over. You are not alone. In fact, I’d wager most knitters have a WIP or six eyeing them from the corner of the room like mildly disappointed (and neglected) pets.

I’m not a monogamous knitter. I like a little variety: a stockinette-for-TV project, something challenging enough to keep my brain firing, a bit of selfish knitting, and something for someone else (when I’m feeling generous or guilty. Sometimes both.) But I find when I’m juggling more than four or five projects, I stop making meaningful progress on any of them and suddenly my lovely relaxing hobby that is knitting turns into a pit-of-the-stomach dread-fest. My sweet spot is to have two or three projects on my needles. Enough to feel like I have options, but not so many I descend into knitting paralysis.

I’ve been thinking about how we get from “Oh no, not another cast-on” to “Look! I finished a thing!” and actually finish your knitting projects. Maybe together we can whittle down that pile of discarded WIPs into an orderly stack of beautiful finished objects.

So let’s talk strategies.

Some knitters fly by the seat of their handmade shorts, casting on with nothing more than blind faith. Others build systems. Glorious, glorious systems. I’m firmly in the latter camp with my spreadsheets, Ravelry pages, sensitive skin yarn libraries and all. Because nothing curdles the joy of a new WIP quite like realising you’ve knitted this exact sleeve before. Twice. And you still didn’t write down what modifications you made. (I’ve been burned before as you can tell.)

Here’s a peek inside how I keep my projects, knitting wish list and yarn stash in working order, and why it makes my knitting life infinitely easier (and, dare I say, more satisfying).

Oh, this is one I’m all too familiar with. I did so much knitting when I was pregnant with my son. Endless hours of calm(ish) clicking needles, daydreaming about tiny cardigans and booties. And then life delivered a squishy newborn into my arms and I’ve been chasing that glorious knitting downtime ever since. Newborn stage, baby stage, toddler stage. Each phase brings its own delightful set of problems to navigate.

And outside of motherhood? Well, we’re also somehow supposed to juggle work, life admin, relationships, other hobbies… not to mention the occasional attempt at sitting still for five minutes without someone asking for a snack.

So, how do we find the space to keep knitting when real life is elbowing us in the ribs?

Or…the surprising origins of the words knitters use

I’ve been knitting for more years than I care to count, let alone commit to writing where someone might quote me on it. Over the years, I’ve adopted the knitter’s vernacular so wholeheartedly that I sometimes forget that normies have absolutely no idea what I’m on about. Friends stare at me like I’ve sprouted dpns from my forehead when I say I had to frog my latest cardigan back eight inches, or when I breezily announce, “I’ve only got to block it and then it’s done.”

But every now and again, the English Literature student in me stirs and I start questioning the curious language we knitters toss around without a second thought. When did we start saying “purl” or “notions” or “frogging”… and why, exactly?