How you knit

process and outcome

Everyone knits differently.

It’s not something you only see from the outside, but something you sense—something that’s constantly happening as the fabric is being built. You notice it in how you hold the needle, in your posture, in how the needle enters the stitch, how it moves through and comes out, in the tension that develops without you being fully aware of it, in the rhythm at which you move forward.

It’s not a minor detail, it’s part of the structure.

Very often, the way we knit is treated as something to correct, as if there were a single right way to do it—as if everything could be standardized: how to hold the needles, how to form a stitch, what the “right” tension is, what result you should obtain. In the same way we rely on standard references on yarn labels or in patterns, we seem to want knitting itself to follow that same model.

But this isn’t a universal rule.

Not only because everyone knits differently, but because that difference is an essential part of the fabric itself: each pair of hands builds it in its own way, and therefore each result is also unique.

This isn’t about knitting in the same way or reaching a shared standard. Small adjustments to the way you knit can be useful—but not to standardize or imitate someone else’s technique. Rather, to make the fabric work better in your hands: to stabilize tension, to let the stitches flow more naturally, to allow the tool to adapt to you instead of the other way around.

Ultimately, it’s about getting to know yourself as you knit. About working more efficiently, getting further with less effort, reducing fatigue—and, above all, understanding that even the smallest change in technique has a direct impact on the result.

Every knitter is unique.

And there’s something else that often goes unnoticed. Tension doesn’t depend only on technique—it also depends on how you are. Your state of mind, your posture, the moment in which you sit down to knit… it all has an influence. Maintaining perfectly consistent tension throughout the entire time it takes to make a garment is, quite simply, impossible.

And the way you knit is not something you can change overnight, nor something you should force. You can try to knit looser or tighter for a while, but that tension won’t be stable—it won’t be yours. And as soon as you stop paying attention, it returns to its natural state.

So rather than trying to change how you knit, it makes much more sense to understand it.

To observe what’s happening in your hands, the connection between what you think and what you do, how that translates into the fabric, to understand the kind of tension you naturally produce—because that’s where you can really work, and where everything begins to fall into place.

When you understand how you knit, you adjust the tool and all the information you bring to a project so that everything works with you—but above all, for you.

The needle stops being a generic recommendation and becomes a deliberate choice, made with intention. Gauge stops being a number you have to reach and becomes something you build from your own tension, from your own self-knowledge, and from your understanding of the craft you’re working within.

And that changes everything—both the process and the outcome. Because you’re no longer trying to replicate something from the outside; you’re building from within.

And that’s where the fabric begins to feel coherent—not only in the result, but in how you arrive at it.

Continue reading →
→ Fabric gauge
→ The needle