When I first heard the words “You have breast cancer,” my world narrowed into a tunnel. I suddenly found myself moving through appointments, tests, decisions, and the overwhelming unknown. When I learned that I needed a mastectomy, I tried to anchor myself back into my body. Everything felt surreal and frightening, and yet somewhere deep inside, I knew that one day I would rise above this moment, and hopefully help someone else do the same.
What I didn’t know then was that my lifeline back to myself would be something as simple, quiet, and familiar as the movement of my hands.
I had been knitting and crocheting for many years, mostly for creativity, joy, and gift-making. But after surgery, these crafts took on an entirely new meaning. When lymph nodes were removed during my mastectomy, my body felt tight, swollen, and foreign. Lifting my arm was suddenly a negotiation. My breath caught in moments when I tried to reach or stretch. As a yoga teacher, someone who understood my body deeply, yet this experience asked me to learn a deeper understanding.
In those early days of recovery, I picked up my knitting needles almost instinctively. I didn’t expect to accomplish much. I just needed something familiar. Something soothing. Something that felt like me.
At first, the movements were small and tentative. A row, then rest. A few stitches, then pause and breathe. But something unexpected happened: the gentle repetition began to loosen not just my arm and shoulder, but the fear that had settled into my chest. Knitting became a form of meditation, one that didn’t require perfect stillness, only presence.
With each stitch, I felt myself come back to my body in a way that didn’t hurt. My hands moved, and my breath followed. My arm stretched just enough to release a little more. The swelling eased. The tightness softened. The rhythm of yarn sliding through my fingers became a grounding point in a life suddenly full of uncertainty.
Crochet, too, offered its own kind of healing. There’s something deeply comforting about holding the fabric in your hands as it grows, stitch by stitch. Crochet requires a slightly different reach and rotation, and that variation helped me regain strength and mobility in ways that felt natural rather than forced. I could feel my body awakening, healing, participating in its own recovery. In fact, it gave me the opportunity to learn a new crochet technique to color and in the chart, and in row after row, I move so deeply into a sense of stillness, peace, and tranquility.
What surprised me most was not the physical benefit, though that was significant. It was how these simple hand movements quieted my mind. The unknown is a frightening place. It’s where fear, anxiety, and “what-ifs” swirl endlessly. But when I picked up the yarn, the unknown stepped back. It had to wait. My hands were busy listening to another rhythm, one that was full of presence instead of fear.
Knitting and crochet became my meditation. My grounding. My reminder that healing is not a single event but a series of small, gentle movements repeated with intention.
There were days when I felt strong, and days when I felt fragile. But no matter how I felt, I could always pick up my project. It didn’t judge. It didn’t rush me. It didn’t ask for more than I could give. It simply gave me a place to land.
Over time, the stitches created more than fabric; they rebuilt trust with my body. They invited me to be patient, to be kind, to be curious, and to keep going even when I didn’t know what the next row of life would look like.
Today, as a survivor, yoga teacher, and craft designer, I share this story because I believe so deeply in the healing power of working with our hands. Crafting is not just creativity; it can be therapy, meditation, and connection. It can remind us of our strength when we feel our most vulnerable.
If you are navigating your own journey through the unknown, whether it’s cancer or any life challenge. I want you to know this: you don’t have to be fearless. You only have to take the next small, gentle stitch. Healing can happen in those quiet moments when your hands move with intention and your heart follows.
And someday, maybe, your story will help someone else rise too.
In Gratitude
Mary Ann
Author Profile:
Mary Ann Gebhardt is a lifelong knitter, crocheter, yoga teacher, and meditation guide, and the author of Knitting Meditation: A 40-Day Journal. She blends mindfulness with creativity, offering calming practices that inspire balance, focus, and joy.
