I didn’t think there would come a day when I couldn’t knit. I’ve knit through long waits, tough days, good news, bad news, and even chemotherapy sessions. But sometimes, the yarn just sits there, quietly judging me from its basket — a soft, colorful reminder that my fingers are on temporary strike.

Chemotherapy neuropathy, as it turns out, is a mischievous little beast. It’s like my fingertips have decided to wear invisible oven mitts 24/7. Buttons are a challenge. Zippers? Forget it. And knitting — my faithful comfort craft — suddenly feels like trying to thread spaghetti through a keyhole.

At first, I was stubborn. I told myself, I’ll just knit slower. Slower turned into dropping stitches, which turned into muttering words not fit for polite company. Finally, I set the needles down, sighed, and gave myself permission to rest. That was the hardest part — not the pain, but the pause.

Because knitting isn’t just a hobby. It’s meditation, creativity, and comfort all twisted into one. It’s how I’ve processed joy, loss, and the endless waiting that comes with cancer treatment. The rhythm of knit and purl has always been my steady heartbeat when everything else wobbled.

So what do you do when you can’t do the thing that keeps you grounded? You get creative — in other ways. I’ve become an expert yarn admirer, a professional pattern dreamer. I still wind skeins (carefully). I stroke alpaca and imagine what it will become. I make mental lists of future projects, like “The Victory Mittens” or “The Neuropathy Can’t Stop Me Sweater.”

And honestly? There’s still comfort in that. Knitting isn’t only in the stitches — it’s in the community, the imagination, and the promise that this, too, will pass. The feeling will return to my fingers one day, and when it does, the yarn will still be waiting. Patiently.

Until then, I’m knitting in my head — one hopeful row at a time.