This is a story of a winding road. It is not just passion that makes us try new and difficult things, but also the desire to fit in. Sometimes the road is bumpy, and bumpier still than we expected.

Last winter, I began a journey; at the time, I did not realize how technical this would be, and oh, how I miss the naive wonder of that time. I started my quest to make socks. The sock does not appear technical from the outside. It is a tube of knit fabric which we slip on our feet, most every day. Due to the Industrial Revolution, socks can be knit by machine with ease and speed. This has suspended our connection to the technology that first developed the sock—hand knitting.

In our modern day, socks are affordable and accessible. They are for sale everywhere in a myriad of textures, weights, and styles. We have socks for athleticism, socks for leisure, socks for style. They are boring, mundane Christmas gifts of childhood, and puppets with googly eyes. But what does it take to make a sock by hand?

I gave this a shot last year, and it challenged me! I cataloged my experience in Socks, A Journey, and Socks: An Update, where I began knitting socks flat on straight needles and three months later gave circular knitting a try. My first flat knit socks were made top down, in a tube style that negates the heel flap and requires sewing the sock into a tube. They are loose in fit but warm and great socks to wear around the house. My advanced tries, knitting in the round and turning the heel, were more of an adventure. My tension was tight, and my heel flap a nightmare, unable to be duplicated into a second sock, for how off script my technique became. I didn’t grasp the why of what I was doing and therefore messed up the pattern.

This summer, I went to a local yarn shop where I began my journey to sock more traditionally. I picked up a pair of small-gauge double-pointed needles and sock sock-making kit with proper sock yarn of wool and nylon, to do it “properly” and oh my, did this bomb. The toe-up pattern, new to me from my previous projects that were cuff down, pushed me far out of my depth. I sank instead of swimming. The four double-pointed needles and my uncoordinated hands created tension and laddering in the knit, which looks exactly as it sounds. I tried three times to knit a few centimeters before the stitches fell off the needles, the sock falling off with the stitches. In desperation, as the needles were 29 USD and the sock kit 29 USD, I was feeling very silly and wasteful purchasing new needles and new yarn that I couldn’t do anything with.

So I pivoted to my trusty straight needles until I saw my mom later that weekend, and she lent me a pair of small-gauge, small-circumference needles to finish the sock. Still baffled by the heel flap and the vague instructions on the pattern, I tried German short rows for shaping the heel. In a fortnight, I completed the first of the two socks. I cast off and handed it to Kyle to try on, and the size was all wrong. I tried to frog it back into a skein of yarn, but the splitty yarn tangled, ripped, and became a ball of knots. It was over, and I was furious with myself for wasting time, money, resources, and, honestly, hurting my eyes squinting to see my tiny stitches for almost two weeks to accomplish nothing.

Socks are madness. And maybe I should stop beating myself up about my failure when socks are one of the hardest things to make by hand. I am an overachiever and a perfectionist, so this type of failure cuts me deep. I obsess, I rage, and I fall apart in the madness of learning something that may take years to execute once, not even perfectly. But you know what? I have made good socks before! Comfortable, almost perfect for what I was looking to achieve, socks. But I rejected them as being good because I was embarrassed at how I made them. I didn’t follow the right techniques, I used the “wrong” yarn, and I didn’t turn the heel.

Sometimes I have major imposter syndrome as a knitter. I feel like a fraud because I don’t use the exact same patterns, same tools, same yarn as everyone else on the internet. But why is that a bad thing? I’ve listened to other knitters in podcasts discuss how the sameness of knitting is making it boring. Apparently, at Rhinebeck or other knitting events, it is easy to see the same sweater throughout the sea of people, and that is a new thing. Listening to knitters, who have been knitting long before 2020, when I really started knitting consistently, knitters used to do their own thing. Yarn suggestions in patterns were exactly that – a suggestion.

People were designing more and experimenting instead of knitting in the homogenized way we see today, which is one of the ways I feel like an outsider. I don’t want to knit the same things as everyone else, but I also want to be good at the craft, and it leaves me in this push-and-pull tension. It became clear to me, though, that my search to “fit in” with the proper sock kit and the expensive needles didn’t make me a better maker. It was honestly a bit of a handicap. So I guess my takeaway is to be yourself?

I don’t want to stagnate in my skills, but if I can find my own technique to make socks and other garments with the “non-standard” tools and yarn, then is it really stagnation or just getting creative with where my skill level is at? I’ve been pondering this a lot and have more thoughts on this from both the point of view of a knitter and a sewist. But that will have to wait for next time.