Returning to Unfinished Things

There are a lot of hobbies we tend to gravitate toward throughout our lives. Well before the pandemic and in the midst of a season where I was doing a lot of healing. I found myself exploring different creative outlets. Part distraction, part therapy. One hobby I had always wanted to try was needlepoint.

I didn't grow up in a family where women stitched, nor in a place where needlepoint was particularly popular. There was simply always a little voice in the back of my mind that said, "Yeah...that's probably something I'll do someday."

Checking my very limited receipts, I received an email on October 22, 2019, that the I Would Prefer Not To canvas was back in stock on the Lycette website. (Lycette has absolutely exploded in popularity since then. Back in 2019 it already felt like a magical place. Today, the world is truly your oyster if you've ever thought about picking up needlepoint.) Despite having never stitched a single canvas before, I looked at this larger canvas and thought, "Yep. Seems like the perfect beginner project." This is...very me. If I want something, I usually decide I'm going to figure it out. Preferably on my own and without asking for help. Is that a strength? A flaw? Probably both.

Naturally...I Bought More

Not long after, my cousin heard about my new needlepoint adventure and mailed me a book filled with decorative stitches and pattern variations. To this day, I still find that book intimidating. I'm much more of a show me once person than a let me decipher twenty diagrams person.

Fast forward to me writing this in 2026. I now look back at the tiny section of that original Lycette canvas I managed to stitch and literally shake my head.

"Brynn...what the actual fuck were you doing?"

Here's the even funnier part. While I was barely making progress on my very first canvas, Sara Fitz had just begun releasing needlepoint designs. Naturally, I decided the next logical step was buying two more canvases. So yes, I happily spent a couple hundred dollars on something I had absolutely no idea how to do. Makes complete sense.

Looking back now, I know exactly what happened. I overcomplicated my canvas, convinced myself I'd already ruined it, didn't ask for help, and quietly wandered off toward one of the many other hobbies I'd accumulated over the years. I never even touched the other canvases.

Returning

Fast forward six years.

After finishing my quilt project, I felt that familiar urge to immediately begin something new. Another hobby. Another project. Another idea. But this time I stopped myself. Instead, I looked around my house. There they were. The heirloom embroidered Christmas tablecloth. The needlepoint canvases. Projects patiently sitting on shelves asking, "Are you ready yet?" For the first time, I realized I didn't actually need another project. I needed to finish the promises I'd already made to myself. One by one, they've slowly become checkmarks instead of "someday."

Finding the Rhythm

I think part of the reason I never picked these canvases back up was because they intimidated me. If I'm being completely honest, there was also a part of me that didn't want anyone to see what I'd already done because I was convinced they'd judge the back of my canvas.

Putting those fears aside, I connected with someone through Instagram who shared the same love for needlepoint. Encouraged by that conversation, I decided to simply try again.

This time I started with the canvases I hadn't touched: the Sara Fitz fish and the wool cable-knit sweater. Let me tell you, these are not beginner canvases. The constant color changes nearly drove me mad, but after watching and rewatching YouTube tutorials, I decided to stop worrying about learning every decorative stitch and simply learn one well.

Basketweave tent stitch.

It wasn't the fanciest stitch, and it certainly wasn't the hardest. But after spending years convincing myself I needed to do everything perfectly, there was something comforting about repeating one simple motion over and over again.

Most evenings eventually settled into the same rhythm. The house would go quiet. My husband asleep. The dogs curled up somewhere nearby. A podcast playing, the frogs outside doing whatever frogs do on warm summer nights. Stitch after stitch, row after row, needlepoint slowly became less about finishing a canvas and more about giving myself a small pocket of uninterrupted peace. It also has a funny way of humbling you. An hour disappears, and you've only covered a few square inches. Somewhere along the way, I stopped measuring progress by how much I finished and started appreciating the quiet rhythm of simply showing up. Beautiful things aren't usually built quickly.

Every Stitch

Are my canvases perfect? Of course not.

If someone picked them up tomorrow, they'd probably think they looked wonderful. Only I know where I grabbed the wrong color. Only I know where I miscounted. Only I know the mistakes.

When I finally returned to my original Lycette canvas, my first instinct was to rip everything out and start over. Then it occurred to me that I was treating this canvas the same way I'd spent years treating parts of my own life. Erase it. Start over. Pretend the mistakes never happened. Instead, I simply started stitching from the opposite side. Eventually the new stitches met the old ones, and something funny happened.

From the front...You can barely tell. Maybe life works a little like needlepoint. I can't go back and restitch the years that have already happened. I can only decide what comes next. Every stitch becomes a choice. Every row becomes a redirection. Progress matters so much more than perfection. Can you tell I spend a lot of time working through life while making things?

Looking Forward

I'm incredibly excited to finish this final canvas. Ironically, it's become the one I'm most attached to, not because it's the prettiest, but because it's been with me the longest.

I'll eventually share all three once they've been fully finished and turned into the pieces they were always meant to become. While I don't usually decorate my home with many things I've made myself, I have a feeling these will become exceptions. Maybe one day they'll become heirlooms for my future children. Not simply because their mom stitched them, but because they'll carry the story, the persistence, the mistakes, and the lessons.

Maybe that's why I wanted to tell this story. Not because I learned needlepoint. But because I learned unfinished things don't always need to stay unfinished. Sometimes they simply wait patiently until we're ready to return to them.

Leaving the original stitches from 2020 is now part of the story on this canvas. It reminds me that growth isn't about erasing where we started, it's about continuing the work.

The Evidence

There was a part of me that didn't want to include photos of the back of my original canvas. It used to embarrass me. Every knot, every wrong stitch, every moment where I clearly had no idea what I was doing is right there for everyone to see. I stopped and laughed. That's the entire point of this story. If I only showed you the finished side, I'd be leaving out the part that mattered most. Growth isn't nearly as interesting without evidence that we've actually grown. So here are all my photos I captured of these canvases including my very chaotic 2020 needlepoint alongside what the back of my stitching looks like today.They're both mine. One isn't something I'm embarrassed by anymore. It's proof that we can get better simply by deciding to begin again.