And so I hopped on the metro to my local yarn store, found a few YouTube tutorials and off I went.

Dear reader, I was hooked.

Like anything on the internet, the TikTok algorithm rewards the superlative. Every day, I encounter a new creator proudly displaying 10 immaculate, intricately-woven sweaters they’ve supposedly knitted in the space of a few short months. I assume these people are either unemployed, superhuman or lying.

Knitting is hard, slow and often infuriating. It is also fun, soothing and rewarding – even if I’m not very good at it. My hands are awkward and unwieldy. I drop my stitches, get my yarn tangled and forget to count my rows.

Unlike those I see online, I will probably never see the halls of knitting greatness. It’s also unlikely I will ever compete at Heavy Metal Knitting, the Olympics of the knitting world (although a girl can dream). Those fictional, Scandinavian children I imagined will be wearing store bought sweaters for the foreseeable future.

Obviously, I would like to get to a stage where I can wear the things I make – or even gift them to friends and family. But being good at knitting is almost beside the point.

It’s about the journey, not the destination, a decorative pillowcase I’m yet to knit might read.

There is something deeply comforting about clocking out of my (at times) stressful job and going home to complete four hours of equally, but differently, stressful knitting.

The rhythmic back-and-forth of the needles and “throwing of the yarn” (I fall into the rather unfashionable camp of English knitters) are hypnotic. I enter a trance-like state where, for a few hours, nothing else matters but moving needle and yarn in the same specific sequence, over and over again. Knit one, purl one, etcetera etcetera.

A recent 10-hour flight to Tokyo passed me by in a blink because of it.

I know of a woman who has been knitting the same scarf for years. Like a sweater-wearing Sisyphus, each time she finishes it, she unravels her work only to start all over again.

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I get it.

As a recovering alcoholic, a recurring theme in addiction was my inability to see anything through. Letting myself and the people I loved down was something I was accustomed to.

I’ve always been a romantic at heart, sketching out big dreams that would fall away each time I picked up a drink.

As well as being a way to fill the many hours sobriety has freed up in my life, knitting is teaching me patience. My instinct every time I make a mistake (which is often), is to throw the whole thing in the bin, douse it in petrol and light a match. I’m learning to sit with imperfection and commit, as long as it may take.

It’s also therapeutic. My cover of Peach’s sex positive anthem F— the Pain Away would be titled “Knit the Pain Away”.

I’m not the first person to discover knitting’s healing powers. I’ve seen other addicts talk about the craft as a path to recovery, and read about its use in rehabilitation programs and in prisons. Studies have shown it can lower blood pressure and cortisol levels.

So far, I’ve made a scarf and a beanie. I’m now trying to knit a tank top.

Each completed project – holey and misshapen – feels like a triumph. Just as I think I’ve got the hang of knitting, I’m deeply humbled by a new stitch or technique I have to learn.

But despite their imperfections, they’re mine: The alchemy of an art form mapped out by generations before me, symbols magicked into something real I can finally say I’ve seen through from start to finish.

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