A Defence for Selfish Stitches by Nadine Bachan
When crafters describe making for themselves, a term comes up often: selfish. “Selfish” appears in several instances on Ravelry.com, an online resource of over a million patterns. The word is used in material guides and discussion boards on all things yarn, and in the patterns and blogs I’ve browsed online about knitting and crocheting. One crafter was quite plain and simple about it: “[I’m] indulging myself…making things that I’m interested in instead of things I think other people might be interested in.” Another blogger qualifies “selfish” if you say yes to these questions:
(1) are you going to enhance your own wardrobe?
(2) does creating something new for yourself excite you?
The most succinct definition I’ve seen labels the “a selfish knitter [or crocheter] as one who knits [or crochets] exclusively (or at least preponderantly) for herself.” This particular blog poster goes on to post a photo of a baby-sized beanie in-progress commenting that “As for the selfish part, seems it applies only in terms of my time…and I wouldn't want it any other way. A mom can only be so selfish.” The judgement here feels palpable.
With so many knitters and crocheters pontificating on what it means to be indulgent, it’s no wonder that I feel conflicted about making things for myself. Maybe that’s why I’ve botched every item I’ve ever made for myself. Be it the yarn selection, pattern choice, or slip-ups in construction, something has always gone askew. My fears of selfishness stitched itself into self-sabotage.
Superwash wool in cerulean and blue wave, super fine, double-crochet cluster shell stitch
The first truly “selfish” project I made was a sleeveless top that required tapestry crochet, an intricate technique that hides the unworked colour yarn along each row by holding it behind the crocheted stitches in the current colour. It demanded patience and attention. Since making it three years ago, I’ve worn it once. I don’t like the way it drapes and regret some of the colour choices. The itchy material reflects the discomfort I feel when splurging on myself.
A month later, I tried again. This time with a tank top in a shell pattern, cluster stitches that worked up snugly, row by row, in blue wave and solid cerulean colourways. I was so happy with the design that I took a close-up photograph of it, but the top was too wide on my shoulders and the arm openings were too large. I even packed the top into my suitcase for my visit home so my mother could alter it with some quick hand-sewing. She assured me it looked great. It didn’t. Despite my mother’s fix, it was still boxy and fit poorly. I never wore it and considered, more than a few times, if I would feel better if I just gave it away.
It’s not the act of creating something handmade that felt selfish. I love to crochet. It brings me joy, transforming a ball of yarn into something useful, wearable, decorative. The tactical feeling of manipulating both hook and yarn, seeing the way the crocheted piece slowly takes form as each row is completed, from the moment I choose a skein to the moment the final slip stitch is tightened — the entire process is therapeutic and extremely satisfying.
But, when I knew the project was for me, the notion of the “selfish” endeavour thinned that contentment. I’d grow tired of the project, frustration overtaking me quickly. The negative thoughts would come:
Ugh, why did I choose this colour? …
This stitch is going to take FOREVER to work up…
Am I ever going to actually wear this? …
This pattern isn’t going to look right … I should start over and try something else…
Above all else would be the overarching regret that I was wasting the time and yarn on myself when I could be making gifts for friends and family.
Three years ago, I found an out-of-print vintage crochet pattern for a gorgeous shawl-collar cardigan. The moment I laid eyes on the pattern I knew I wanted to make it for myself. The garment calls for over 2,500 yards of good-quality mohair yarn — an extravagant expense for me even though I’ve happily spent more than I’ve cared to calculate on yarn for presents. I had re-read the row-by-row instructions dozens of times and researched yarn options just as frequently, only to let the cost scare me. That cardigan is a project I must earn, I told myself, perhaps some future January (long known as the selfish month by knitters and crocheters who usually spend late Autumn and all of December fervently making holidays gifts) or whenever I felt I’d given enough of my time and energy to generous pursuits.
Acrylic in pine-green, worsted, moss stitch
In early 2020, after crocheting 1,750 yards of kelly-green worsted into a selfish sweater in the moss stitch, I used leftover navy yarn to finish the neckline and cuffs. I tried it on and actually liked it, but my collarbone and palms itched. The blue yarn was a sturdy acrylic, its roughness exacerbated by the tight edging. Even after a couple of cycles in the wash, wearing the sweater still nags me.
While making another sweater later that Spring— this time a diamond pattern in soft ruby-cherry yarn — I accidentally reversed the row construction in my haste to finish up. I noticed the ten rows showing the wrong side of the stitches after the sweater was done. I had surprised myself. I’m usually very attentive to construction when the pattern calls for patterning in the stitchwork. After years of practise, I’ve learned to pause and examine the construction after every few rows, ensuring the pattern and tension are on-point. If I spotted an error, I’d not hesitate to frog (unravel) back and correct. My partner assured me that no one would notice the subtly reversed rows, but they’re all I see. In a sense, the sweater won’t truly be wearable in my eyes until the day I drudge up the energy to frog and fix the mistake.
Gifts have always been a happy labour. Before my nephew was born, I made him a crib blanket, the first of many handmade objects. A few months later, just as BC went into its first official Covid-19 lockdown, I sat down with the blue tank top and removed my mom’s handiwork with a stitch ripper. After that, it took an hour to unravel a garment that took several weeks to make. So far, this has been the only time I’d ever de-constructed a finished piece. It was bittersweet. Though I was glad to watch the top slowly becoming undone, I did love how those intricate shell stitches had taken shape.
“All that work, gone,” my partner commented sadly as he watched me re-wind the yarn into balls to start anew.
Within days, I made a little sweater and matching hat. I loved everything about the set. It didn’t matter that the baby would grow out of it within months. It didn’t matter that I had to frog and fix the mistake.
Mercerized cotton in navy and black, light worsted, fair-isle tapestry
My sister will celebrate a milestone birthday this year. I asked her to request a special piece. She chose a cotton sweater in black and blue. I’m taking my time with this gift, my first attempt at the fair-isle technique which hides the carried yarn with the knit-like waistcoat stitch. I already know this project will be a slow undertaking, from the circular yoke down to patterned cuffs. It’s been over a year since I’ve been able to visit my family in Toronto. She’ll receive this sweater, shipped out to Toronto as soon as it’s finished, and her birthday will come and go, before I can see her again. She’ll receive this detailed sweater before I fix the small mistakes on the sweater. A gift for another is an act of love; a gift for yourself is an act of egotism.
Then again, maybe I had wrongfully assigned a label of conceit to something that really didn’t deserve so much criticism.
While browsing patterns on Ravelry, “selfish” appeared once again. In the pattern notes, the reader is urged to buy the prettiest and softest yarn they can find. “You absolutely deserve to make and wear this,” the creator writes. “It’s not selfish!” The name of the pattern is the Self Care Scarf.
After reading those words — an encouraging declaration in a crochet pattern, no less! — I found myself unexpectedly moved. Under normal circumstances, I would have read this and moved on with much afterthought. However, several months of life mired in this pandemic had been chipping away at my wellness. My anxiety levels were middle to high at any given time. I worried constantly about the health of my loved ones, both local and afar. The future had become so uncertain that I could no longer plan for it. So often, especially in hard times, we find ourselves taking care of those we love before we tend to our own needs. As the pandemic wears on, as we continue to socially distance and avoid non-essential travel, we are asked to be mindful of our actions and of our own health. I wait for my turn to be vaccinated and try to look after myself in ways I didn’t realize I needed to. We are constantly being reminded and urged to invest in our own well-being. Living without the up-close-and-personal comforts of friends and family, we must seek out and embrace those comforts purely for the self.
As I plan new projects, I often think about the person I’m crocheting for. I consider their tastes, their style. As I crochet, I continue to think about them. It’s a deliberate act of recognition and love. Similarly, the definition of “self care” is the practice of making a conscious effort in maintaining one's own well-being and happiness.” That, too, is not about indulgence or conceit.
I laid out all the items I’d made for myself. I’ve spent hours researching patterns, yarn, tools, and techniques. I’ve spent years working up thousands of stitches. How many more times will I grudgingly wear any of these items before I put them away indefinitely? Might these, too, eventually be unravelled and re-purposed into something I feel better about simply because I’ll give it away? Why does the throw I made my brother hold so much more value and purpose than the crop-top I made for myself? Why did I find so much more pleasure in making my dad’s gloves and my mom’s top than I did in making the rainbow dress? This negativity only serve to negate the why and how I crochet.
I took new photographs of each garment, remembering the transformative, meditative, and purposeful process that went into each piece. I set out to make the dress, sweaters, and tops for myself because I wanted to. There should have been no caveats, no regret in that creation, not for others and not for myself.
Cotton blend in variegated rainbow, sport, top-down raglan in double-crochet
On one of the few-and-far-between excursions I’ve been on this year (renewing my driver’s license at the local ICBC office), I wore a boat-neck short-sleeved top made up in white and blue with a continuous strand of metallic thread held throughout in a combination of back-loop stitches with an eyelet-style pattern. I knew the top wouldn’t show up in the license photo. As I walked home afterwards, it sparkled in the sunlight.
I’m experimenting with a colour-changing yarn my partner gifted me, trying different stitches, shaping, tension, and hook sizes. I’m enjoying the creative process. It might become scarf or shawl or perhaps pair of gloves. Whatever it’ll be, it’ll be mine first. Old habits will still have their way, though, as my eagerness urges me to move on to the yarn I’ve recently purchased. I already know what those skeins will become: a red/white/grey washable acrylic cardigan and matching socks for my nephew’s 1st birthday; rainbow cotton for my partner’s summer shirt, colours that will match the rainbow dress I hope to wear this year; and chocolate/sienna mohair-acrylic for my “selfish” shawl-collar cardigan.
Nadine Bachan (www.nadinebachan.com) is a Vancouver-based writer and editor. Her writings about culture and identity have been published across Canada. She is working on a collection of personal essays and a book of linked short stories. Her love of crafting comes from generations of gifted women, including her mom whose talents in embroidery and sewing are nonpareil.