This article is a guest post by Mandi Bush of Threeeightyknits. It focuses on the quiet role knitting plays in helping us move through unfamiliar spaces while staying connected to ourselves. I hope you enjoy reading it.

You can also find this talented US based writer and crafter’s work here in their Etsy store.

I brought yarn and knitting needles with me on a plane ride to Boston. A small project for a short
flight. A moody gray variegated yarn plucked from a local dyer on a previous trip to Iceland. I
knew it wouldn’t get finished. It didn’t matter. I needed to bring it with me. It was one of the
easiest things that I was able to decide to add to my carry-on.

It was everything I needed — something to decompress, to fill the time, to find a little comfort on
a work trip that already felt full. Long days of presenting, attending sessions, and socializing.
Knitting was what grounded me and pulled me back when I started to feel far from home.
Without it, I probably would have scrolled my phone. Half-watched a movie. Taken a nap.
Counted the minutes until landing. Knitting slowed the flight down in a way that felt intentional,
not frustrating. No one commented or noticed. Everyone kept to themselves. Part of me felt
relieved while another part disappointed since knitters are such a community and what a great
conversation to have with a person.

I don’t bring knitting on trips to be productive. I’m not trying to finish anything. If I was, I would
have chosen one of the armless sweaters hanging around in project bags. Lately, I’ve been
more interested in what helps me arrive feeling like myself. A sock gives me that. It’s something
steady when everything else feels scheduled and loud.
Socks are small and portable, but they hold more than stitches. They carry memories of where
the yarn came from, of trips taken before, of evenings at home, of lessons learned. They hold
mistakes and accomplishments. Bringing one with me makes unfamiliar places feel less empty.
There’s something about knitting a sock, round after round, that settles my mind into a steady
rhythm. That steadiness is what relaxes me. I retreat to my hotel room before dinner with
colleagues and knit a few rounds, letting the tension ease out of my shoulders. It calms me
before bed and prepares me for sleep.

When I flew back home from Boston to DFW, the sock was still unfinished. A little longer than it
had been on the way out. The cabin lights were off, and I blindly felt my way around the sock
cuff, counting stitches by touch. At landing, I tucked it back into my bag before stepping into the
familiar rush of the airport. The signs I know by heart directing me to baggage claim with the
feeling of returning to routines waiting on the other side.
I didn’t need the sock to be finished to feel like it had done its job. It had already steadied me
while I was away and followed me home again. Something familiar carried through unfamiliar
spaces, then back into my own.

Back to the arms of a little girl missing her mom. That felt like enough.