There was a time in my life when cross stitching was basically my entire personality.
Every free moment? Stitching. Sitting on the couch? Stitching. Watching TV? Definitely stitching… and occasionally looking up to see who just dramatically walked out of the room on whatever show I had on.
And then… life happened.
Kids. Work. Brain overload. Suddenly the idea of following a pattern, counting tiny squares, and making sure I didn’t mess up somewhere in row 47 felt like way too much. My brain said, “Absolutely not.” So I downgraded to colouring books — because if I went outside the lines, at least no one would know. Or care.
But the other night, something strange happened.
I actually felt like cross stitching again.
So I dug out my cross stitch suitcase — yes, I have an entire suitcase dedicated to it, no I will not be taking questions — and went searching. And there it was. An old project. Something simple. Something manageable. A pattern that I had clearly started following… and then at some point decided, “You know what? I’m the artist now,” and just started doing my own thing.
Honestly, I respect past me for that.
So I sat down and started stitching again.
And immediately remembered… oh right. I’m 40.
The eyes? Not what they used to be. The focus? Questionable. The stamina? Let’s just say I’m no longer pulling marathon stitching sessions without consequences.
But you know what? It felt good. Slow, a little imperfect, slightly squinty… but good.
Sure, I may need better lighting, maybe some readers, and definitely more breaks. But I’m back.
Well… for at least 20 minutes at a time.
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