Unraveling is surprisingly joyful with a partner

Recently, I hit a snag: the sweater I’d been knitting for six months had finally reached the sleeves, and I realized I was about to run out of yarn—one skein short. I suspected I might have left it at a knitting event, but I wasn’t sure. After six months, I knew finding the same dye lot would be impossible. Dye lots matter; otherwise a visible line can appear in the finished garment.

I’d already resigned myself to defeat. I decided to turn it into a short-sleeved cardigan and used a kitchen scale to measure how much yarn each row took, so I could use up every last bit. Yet something still felt off. My original plan was a long-sleeved cardigan, and I had no idea what I’d do with a short-sleeved one. I also planned to sell the pattern online later and wasn’t sure a short-sleeved version would make sense.

Unraveling is part of knitting, and there’s no need to be afraid of it. That’s what I keep telling my friends, the participants in my knitting courses, and myself. Still, it can feel emotionally daunting.

The best rule for unraveling is to think carefully about whether the mistake or flawed plan truly bothers you and whether anyone else would even notice. Often, a knitting mistake might drive you nuts, even though nobody else sees it. Yet in your eyes, it shouts: “Look at me, I’m here just to irritate you.”

I always sleep on it or ask a friend for advice before deciding to unravel. That way, I don’t make rash decisions and can gauge how big or small the issue really is.

I texted a friend: short sleeves it is. Her reaction immediately made me realize I needed more yarn. Fortunately, I was working with a yak-silk-merino blend along with a strand of silk-mohair. The silk-mohair would help conceal the change in dye lot.

I combed the internet and discovered that the black yarn I needed was nowhere to be found. Finally, I spotted a single skein at a small online shop I hadn’t heard of before. I ordered it on the spot!

And then I started unraveling. I cursed out loud because unraveling silk-mohair is brutal. The fibers cling to each other and keep snagging. Usually, unraveling is a relief once you find the right solution and commit to it. It’s just one more small step in the process.

My partner watched sympathetically until we realized we could do it together. He took the delicate silk-mohair skein in his large hands while I wound the yak-silk-merino yarn. Our unraveling flowed like a dance, and it felt wonderful that he wanted to help. Unraveling became our shared project.

I wound the yarn into my own ball, and he wound his. We were done in five minutes. Whenever we hit a knot, we paused and untangled it, wrapping the balls around each other as many times as needed. The process made me fall in love with him all over again. Then he said that next, I get to learn how to change our bikes’ winter tires together. I’m more than happy to do so.