A Note for Leaders and Creatives: How Long Does it Take to Knit a Sweater?

“Leaders who are dealing with constant change, evolving, unpredictable markets, or a looming merger or acquisition—they want to do it perfectly, to do it well. But why would they? They’ve never crossed this threshold before.”

—Libby Wagner

I learned to sew when I was 8. My mother was smart. She recognized a young girl’s increasing awareness and interest in her developing identity and how clothing and style said something about what she liked and who she was. “No,” she’d say, “we’re not going to buy that item. But if you want to make it, we’ll go to the fabric store and pick something out.” This was when making something by hand was actually less expensive, long before “fast fashion” and throw-away garments. It was her joy of making things she was sharing, but mostly, I think it was a way to teach me how things we want often take time, commitment, and discovery.

I loved sewing and everything about it, and I would beg to be dropped off at the fabric store so I could walk amongst the bolts of fabric and spend hours paging through the huge pattern books from Butterick, McCall’s, and Simplicity. I was good at it, too, uncharacteristically patient in the process, forgiving of myself when I made mistakes. I made jeans and ski coats and dresses and silk suits. I fell in love with fabrics and notions. When I was older, after taking a tailoring class with the fashion merchandising college students and shopping for things at Goodwill, I could tell a designer garment by feel and construction. I could tell if my $23 jacket was a bargain because I could change out the buttons or adjust the fit.

But I couldn’t really knit. Unless you want to count a simple garter stitch scarf. Or a stockinette poncho. Something square or rectangle. Something where I wouldn’t ever make a mistake because knitting, to me, felt like math and if I tried my hand at a sweater or a hat (no way would I have attempted socks!), I’d glaze over by the third step in the instructions and rant about why knitting designers were in cahoots with Ikea assembly instruction authors. Who could decipher all the shorthand: K1, P3, YO, KKSl, WYIB **?

My mother and sister are excellent knitters. Socks, sweaters, intricate shawls, mohair lace, and Fair Isle sweaters in multiple colors. I could never bridge the gap between my love of fibers and my growing stash of colors, and the fact that no matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to finish a project that I liked, that fit, that I could or would wear. Many times, I’d just hand over the Zip-loc bag to my mom, saying, “do you want to finish this? I can’t do it.” And my mother, with loving gentleness, would try to help me, sitting next to me on the couch, showing me, then handing me the needles and watching me. We’d hand them back and forth. Once, we literally spent hours deciphering that, despite the instructions and following them repeatedly, we couldn’t make it work. In fact, there was an error in the pattern, but I grew angrier and more frustrated and decisive: I could not knit.

A few years ago, I found a pattern that looked pretty easy. It was a cardigan with no buttons—like a big, cozy wrap. I chose this gorgeous taupe merino and complementary lacy mohair. The result would be this light, airy, warm garment to wrap around on winter days, to throw on in an evening of cooling temperatures. The 7 pages of instructions had beautiful photos of people wearing this sweater, having a cup of tea, staring out over a gorgeous horizon, smiling over their own knitting needles. I dug in.

For the most part and for hundreds of stitches, it was a rectangle. Starting at the bottom, working my way up to the waist and then where the armhole would be, it was time to angle the fabric so that the side and shoulder could be shaped. In truth, all garment construction and pattern designs are about trying to create a flat thing that fits around a three-dimensional object: a body. This particular garment was not fitted to the proportions of my body; it would be loose and floaty. It didn’t need to fit. The instructions began to change, and I left the map of K1 P1 into something called short rows. It was a nightmare. I couldn’t get it. My stitches got too tight, then I couldn’t get the needle in easily. I was straining the yarn, and it looked messy.

When I asked my mom for help, she looked at the instructions and said that she knew another technique for short rows and she could teach me, and then I could move on. I followed her instructions for 26 rows and hundreds more stitches. But when I got to the next part, I couldn’t make sense of it. Counting my stitches still left on the needle, it didn’t match up with the pattern instructions. I went over it and over it. When my mom tried to help me, I got angry, petulant, and impatient: I was not a great version of myself. I thought, “why did you tell me to do it this way when now I can’t finish because my needles look nothing like the pattern?” I got nauseous thinking about ripping out those 26 rows. So much time spent. So far, the project seemed like the shape in the pattern, but I didn’t know where to go next.

I put the sweater away for three years.

I used to joke and say I was in the four-year sweater club. In fact, nothing about knitting was pleasurable except the yarn itself and the idea that I might make something that I liked. I put my yarn away in bins. I let the monthly membership pattern club, with its artisan yarns, stack up in my creative studio. I organized my growing number of patterns in clear plastic sleeves in a three-ring binder. I think I knit a scarf or two, a circular cowl. At Christmas this past year, my sister came to visit. “Here,” I said and handed her the bag with the taupe sweater. “Can you fix this? I can’t bear to rip it out.” She handed it back to me a day later with the pattern marked. “You’re here,” she said. “Just start from here.”

Earlier this year, I found a knitting designer whose aesthetic I really liked. She was curvy and artsy, and her designs seemed simple and beautiful. For some reason, I thought I might try again, pushing the memory of the turquoise Peruvian wool sweater, with the arms that were literally ten inches too long, to the back of my closet. I even thought to myself: what is it about me that cannot seem to knit? It was the math. I knew it was the math. What a surprise to learn that, in fact, this particular teacher had a class called Knitting Math, a two-hour class on a Saturday for $50.

She had devised a formula for taking your own measurements and creating mathematical calculations to determine what size and how to adjust a pattern to fit. We made swatches and counted stitches, and filled out the worksheet. It seemed like it might be possible to begin a project that might have a chance of turning out to be something I might like, that I might wear! I felt empowered.

This particular teacher offers very few classes and not very often. Attendance is limited. There are no recordings or videos of the class itself, so if you miss a session, it’s too bad. I tried to register for a Guided Sweater Class several times to no avail. It was full, and it was on a day I couldn’t make it. This happened for months. Finally, I saw that I could register for a 6-week class where I could make at least 4 of the sessions. Perhaps I could get started? Perhaps I could learn something?

The class was full of fangirls. Women who’d knit many of her sweaters, who swooned over everything she said, who, in their introductions, gushed with admiration for this particular person’s approach. I was intrigued. Maybe I could learn from this person? Maybe she’d unlock my knitting woes and transform me into a real knitter, after all?

During class, she used two cameras, one on her face and one on her table. She asked for questions at the beginning, and in a round-robin style, she’d check in with each person and ask them where they were in their project. In the first class, my swatch of the yarn I wanted to knit wasn’t going to work. Even though I think I’m relaxing my hands, I’m a tight knitter. There are always more stitches per inch for my gauge, which means that from the very beginning, I’m off. I had to go back and re-swatch, use different needles or a different yarn. In truth, I’d never done a swatch before. Never checked my gauge, really, because I didn’t understand it, and I could never get it to turn out before I even started on Step 1 in the instructions.

Each week, when it was my turn to talk, I began with deprecating remarks and apologies: “I’m not very good at this. I’m behind. My sister and mother are excellent knitters, but I’m not. I realize this is probably a question you’ve already answered,” And on and on. Each time, she was pretty patient with me, but I felt intimidated by her and the fast knitters in the group whose projects were already starting to look like sweaters. Some of them were trying them on to check the fit! Some of them were asking questions I didn’t even understand. Some shared, “I’ve ripped this out four times, but now I think I’ve got it!” I tried to take notes on all the questions, even though I wasn’t at that point in my pattern, because there was simply no way to ask a question unless you were physically in a class.

This teacher did not answer emails, offer private sessions, or recommend resources for continuous learning. I began to form an opinion about her: she was arrogant, ungenerous, unhelpful. I wrote her two emails which went unanswered. I complained about her to my mother, sister, and a few friends. I got righteous: how is she getting away with this? This very limited window where students can ask questions? I would never do this to any of my students. I hadn’t ever, actually. I spent hours on Ravelry (a knitting forum) looking for others who knitted the same sweater pattern to see if there were any secrets there. To get my questions answered. I scrolled hashtags on Instagram and poured over YouTube videos. I even tried to manipulate the situation by sending a pleading email about how I was having hand surgery (which hadn’t been scheduled when I registered for the class) and how, after the class was over, was I supposed to get my questions answered about making this sweater? I got a bit pitiful: I was hoping this was the first time, ever, I was going to knit a sweater that would fit and that I would wear, and I’d hoped she was going to be the author of this transformation in me. 

No answer.

As the class wrapped up, and I had only made my way through the 3-inch split twisted rib bottom of a sweater that’s knit from the bottom up, I had ripped it out and started over three times. I read the instructions over and over. I logged into the class with my bandaged hand only three days out of surgery and some sort of spite: everyone would see how terrible this person was because she wouldn’t even be available to someone who had an unusable limb! 

I got the ‘please unmute’ pop-up box when it was my turn to speak.

“I’m really proud of myself for how far I’ve gotten,” I said to the others who were mere days away from finishing their sweaters on three continents. “But I’m concerned,” I began, “about how I will finish this when I no longer have access to our group or a place to answer questions.”

She looked at me pleasantly.

“I want to know what you suggest for me? I’ve searched Ravelry and YouTube and Instagram, and I’m not sure where to go next,” I asked directly.

“Hmmm,” she said, “I’m not sure.”

I couldn’t believe she wasn’t going to answer my question or help me in front of everyone else!

“What about the yarn store where you got your yarn?” she asked.

“I bought my yarn from a farmer in Iowa where I could actually pet the alpacas,” I quipped.

“Oh,” she said, not adding more.

“Do you know any people who’ve knit this sweater who might be willing to help me?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

And I just knew it wasn’t true! There were more than a thousand knitters who’d posted their projects on Ravelry. Someone knew how to knit this sweater.

Finally, she asked, “Do you have a yarn shop near you? Sometimes they have open knitting hours. You might try that.”

“Oh,” I finally said, “that’s a good idea. I hadn’t thought of that.” And I hadn’t, but at that moment, I just thought she was wrong.

Here’s what happened next. My sister helped me answer my first question. Relief! I could move beyond the ribbing. Then, painstakingly, I worked very slowly through the instructions over the next few weeks. I spent hours on YouTube finding how-to videos for every knitting step: long-tail cast-ons, German short rows, and three-needle bind-offs. Slowly, slowly, it began to take shape. I ripped out some rows three or four or five times. I dropped stitches, couldn’t pick them up, ripped them out, and started over. At one point, I finished the front and pinned it onto my custom dress form (basically a replica of me). The sweater fit perfectly. It was going to fit! It was beautiful. Not perfect, but soft and beautiful, made from an alpaca in Iowa named Panache.

In truth, this teacher taught me something I needed to know, something I hadn’t yet learned about myself, but I’d often fully believed in others: You can do this. You are capable. It takes as long as it takes. It wasn’t her job to pity me or change herself for me. It wasn’t her choice to make special exceptions for me or make herself available when she didn’t want to be available. She was utterly unapologetic about her process, work, and practices. She both stood for herself and offered her gifts.

Like many leaders with whom I work, I am uncomfortable with not being good at something fairly quickly. It’s not a particularly useful state, but it is what it is. It’s not that I haven’t tried new things or taken risks: I have. But once you’ve developed a certain kind of success or a distinct experience with competency, it’s so hard to be on the other side, not to be good at something right away. And, often, the worst part of this dynamic is that others expect you to be good at things right away, too. Ask any talented senior engineer who is promoted to an engineering manager. Ask any random, successful adult who becomes a parent. Overnight, we plunge into our own ocean of incompetency: we actually don’t know how to do this thing we thought we might be good at. That we thought we wanted. And often, the very next step in our thinking is to become angry, defensive, or filled with self-judgment and doubt.

Even though I would never describe myself as someone who quits or gives up or can’t be committed. In truth, I like being good at things. I like being one of the smartest people in the room. I like having answers. I don’t like feeling like I’m unable or a failure. Leaders who are dealing with constant change, evolving, unpredictable markets, or a looming merger or acquisition—want to do it perfectly, to do it well. But why would they? They’ve never crossed this threshold before. Each time, the situation is unique, no matter the predictable factors. But the truth is, becoming comfortable with our discomfort is exactly where we can dig deep, realize our own agency and resourcefulness, surrender to our own path and be open to how things unfold. Yes, you still need to ask for help. Yes, you still need to do your own work. But isn’t it sweet when finally, after all, it fits?