A Doily, a Cardboard Box, and Something I Thought Was Settled

Today began without intention.

I wasn’t looking to remember anything. I was scrolling, saw a crochet doily pattern, and felt a small tug of recognition. I downloaded it, pulled out crochet thread and a tiny needle I hadn’t touched in years, and sat down to begin.

That’s when the memory surfaced.

Years ago, I was dating someone much younger than me. He was fun. Light. Always moving. After a while, he asked me to move in with him, so my son and I did. While unpacking boxes, he pulled out a doily I had made when I was young. I had given it to my mother, who taught me to crochet. She loved it. It was one of the few things I ever made that she truly noticed.

He held it up and laughed. “Yuck. I am NOT having doilies in my house. They scream’ old people.’”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain. I held in the tears, folded it carefully, and placed it back in a box. A few weeks went by. I couldn’t shake the idea that he thought something was ugly that I know was beautiful.

Many more differences added up quickly. I soon realized that I had catapulted myself and my son into a situation of nothing but sacrifice.

So I rented a U-Haul. My son and I packed up, and we left. We were simply too different.

Apparently not.

Sitting at the table today, following the pattern stitch by stitch, something softened.

This moment wasn’t asking for confrontation or closure. It was asking for attention. For stillness. For enough quiet to let an old feeling surface without being dismissed.

There was pride there. Old pride. The kind that comes from being seen by your mother when being seen was rare. The kind that waits patiently, even when you think you’ve outgrown it.

I noticed how often I wanted to rush through the crochet project. How quickly I wanted it to look finished. How familiar it would feel to abandon it halfway through.

I also noticed a bit of rebellion.

Not loud rebellion. Quiet rebellion. The simple act of choosing to make something that had once been labeled unacceptable. Old. Embarrassing.

I couldn’t tell what I was more proud of. Starting the doily coaster. Finishing it, which I rarely do. Or letting myself feel that old approval without brushing it aside.

Today the thread held. The pattern held. My hands remembered.

So did the feeling.

The rhythm. The repetition. The steadiness of making something slowly, without apology or explanation.

Sometimes resolution doesn’t come through insight or conversation.

Sometimes it comes through stitches.

A pause. A loop. A return.

Sometimes we need to take a few careful stitches to resolve things we didn’t even know were still unfinished.

I didn’t make the doily to prove anything.

I started it only because I wanted to feel the white crochet thread pull softly through my fingers and the cold, hard steel of the 2 mm crochet hook.

I made it because I wanted to...feel.

I got more than I bargained for.

Onward doesn’t always mean leaving something behind. Sometimes it means reclaiming it quietly. Letting it belong.

Today, that was enough.

Onward, anyway.

If you’d like to try your hand at the little crochet doily that could, here is the link to the pattern.

Help someone find solid ground.

If this essay resonated, consider sharing Solid Ground with a friend who might need a steadier place to land. Quiet words travel farther than we think.

Solid Ground is a space for reflection, patience, and learning to move onward without rushing. There are no quick fixes here. Just honest writing for seasons of change, pause, and reinvention.

Onward,
Bobbie Kay