entry twenty-five

 Sunday, April 13, 2025

Today I sat down with a ball of soft, chunky wool yarn and started knitting—just to knit. I didn’t wind the yarn into a ball like I should have. I just dove in, hoping the rhythm would soothe me. But soon enough, the yarn tangled into a frustrating knot. I had to pause again and again to unravel the mess. My neat plan of ten stitches per row turned into twelve. I’d grabbed different-sized needles, so some stitches were tight, others loose. It was imperfect. Messy. But maybe that’s exactly what I needed.

It felt a lot like teaching—especially in special education. I walk into each day with plans, structure, goals. But things unravel. Kids struggle, emotions spike, systems don’t support the way they should. And I’m left untangling as I go, adjusting, recalibrating, breathing deep. Like my knitting, my days are uneven—but they still come together into something.

And through it all, I hear Dory’s voice from Finding Nemo: “Just keep swimming.” That line has become one of my mantras—simple, but powerful. Some days, I whisper it to myself during a tough IEP meeting or after a student meltdown. Just. Keep. Swimming.

I’m learning that self-care isn’t always polished or pretty. It’s not always a long bath or a perfect morning routine. Sometimes, it’s untangling yarn while watching trash TV. Or stepping outside to feel the sun on my face for five quiet minutes. It’s making something with my hands when everything else feels out of my control. It’s trusting that messy stitches still form a blanket, and tough days still build a life. I still show up. I still care. And that counts—for my students, and for me.

After untangling the yarn and finishing the knitting, I washed the piece in hot water and then dried it - it shrank and shriveled up in the process. I wanted to see the transformation. I’m comfortable with that kind of change and trust the art process. It’s like my own journey with burnout. Just like the yarn, I’ve been stretched thin, pulled in many directions, and at times, I’ve felt myself start to unravel. The pressure, the constant demand, has made me feel like I’m shrinking, losing my original shape. But, just like the yarn, I know that some of this change—though uncomfortable—is necessary. I need to allow myself to be reshaped. The shrinking isn’t the end, it’s just part of the process. Sometimes, the pressure and tension reveal new layers of resilience. It’s a reminder that even when I feel like I’m losing my form, there is potential for growth in the discomfort. Maybe this shrinking is making room for a new strength, a strength that’s not about being stretched endlessly, but about finding a new way to exist within the tension.

Title: “Knotted, Washed, Whole” - A short play in one scene 

Characters: 

• teacher – a veteran special education teacher  
• Knotted, Washed, Whole – a knitted creation made of soft wool yarn, knotted and washed, now transformed  

Scene: A quiet room. A small knitted piece sits on a table. The teacher enters and stands over the art piece with hands in pockets, contemplative. A soft light pools over the table.

---

teacher: (looking at the piece) I didn’t care how you turned out, you know. No pattern. No perfect plan. Just the motion—knitting for the sake of it. For me.

Knotted, Washed, Whole:  (speaking gently) You weren’t worried when the yarn tangled. Didn’t panic when the needles didn’t match. You just kept going—imperfect, steady.

teacher:(sitting down, sighing) I was frustrated at first. The yarn was all knotted, twisted, tangled up in so many little knots. I wanted to just rip it all apart, but I didn’t. I kept working through it, though it wasn’t easy.

Knitting Sticks: (clinking softly in the jar) Didn’t we give you trouble too? Different sizes, different tensions, yet you kept choosing us. Even when we didn’t match. Why?

Knotted, Washed, Whole:  And yet, you didn’t give up. You worked through each knot, each frustration, until the pieces started to come together. There’s something in that persistence, isn’t there?

teacher: (nods)  It’s like life. Like teaching. I can’t undo the mess sometimes. I can’t control how everything fits together, but I can keep going.  Even when it’s tangled, even when I want to give up.  

Knitting Sticks: (slight clink) We’re all a little different.

A little imperfect. When you keep going, you create something more than the sum of the parts. Isn’t that the goal?

Knotted, Washed, Whole: (supportive) And even when you washed me, I shrank, I shriveled up, and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t care what I became. You just let me be.

teacher: (smiling softly) Because I get it now. I didn’t need you to be perfect. I needed you to remind me that change is a part of the process. That it's okay to feel undone, as long as I keep going. Like you—knotted, washed, but whole in a different way.

Knotted, Washed, Whole: I think we both understand now — we’re not defined by how we start, but by how we keep moving forward.

teacher: (sighs contentedly)  Exactly. It’s okay to unravel a little…  as long as we keep going.

[Lights dim. The teacher and the art piece sit in quiet understanding.]  

[END SCENE]