Growing up, I dabbled in what you might call “grandma hobbies”—knitting, crocheting, and cross stitching that I learned from my aunt. To be honest, I didn’t enjoy them that much. They were tedious, time-consuming, and sometimes frustrating. But looking back, I realize those hobbies taught me lessons I didn’t fully appreciate at the time.
Take knitting, for example. My first project was a scarf. I didn’t have the right materials, so I got creative. I unraveled old, unused bonnets for yarn and even saved up a little of my allowance to buy a few new colors that caught my eye. As a kid, I wasn’t thinking about matching shades—I just picked whatever I thought looked fun. The result? A scarf with pink, black, green, a gradient that went from brown to red, and bright yellow stripes. It was like a rainbow exploded, but not in a good way. I was proud I finished it, but even I could tell it was more of a wild, messy experiment than a proper scarf. It taught me a tough lesson: just because something is done doesn’t mean it’s done well.
The same thing happened with cross stitching. I’d hold the fabric stretched tight in a little hoop, poke the needle through one of the tiny holes, and pull the thread through. Each stitch felt like adding a single pixel to a blank screen. At first, it was just scattered dots of color—blue here, violet there, with no clear shape. But as I kept going, something started to happen.
The random dots began to connect, like pieces of a puzzle coming together. The violets turned into flower petals, and the blues started to form leaves. Halfway through, it was like the picture was waking up. Every stitch made it clearer, like I was slowly filling in a secret image hidden in the fabric. It was slow, and sometimes I’d get bored or make a mistake, but seeing the picture come to life, pixel by pixel, made it all feel magical.
Fast forward to adulthood, and I gave crochet another shot, this time deciding to make a turtle. At first, things were going okay, but I quickly realized I was missing a lot of stitches. I’d get so focused on the pattern that I lost track of my stitch count. Suddenly, one side of the turtle’s shell would look too big, and the other side would be too small. It was a mess. I kept going, hoping it would all come together, but no matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t working.
I had to undo sections, redo others, and start over more times than I could count. Each time, I thought I had it right, only to find another mistake. It felt like I was chasing my own tail, trying to fix tiny errors that kept popping up. At one point, I even wondered if I’d ever finish it at all. The process was frustrating, and it seemed like the harder I tried, the more mistakes I made.
But as I kept going, I slowly got better at noticing where I’d gone wrong and fixing it. It took time, and I had to be patient with myself. Eventually, the turtle started to come together, each stitch fitting in place like it was meant to. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. It taught me that mistakes are part of the process, and paying attention to the little details—like counting each stitch—makes all the difference.
It reminds me of a quote by Vincent Van Gogh:
“Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.”
That’s exactly what these hobbies taught me, even if I didn’t see it back then. Every stitch, every thread, every choice matters. Whether you’re crafting, coding, or creating anything at all, the details shape the outcome.
Another quote I keep coming back to is from John Wooden:
“It’s the little details that are vital. Little things make big things happen.”
This quote has stuck with me, especially now that I’m a developer. When I look at my work, I realize that creating software is much like knitting or crocheting. At first glance, it might seem like it’s all about the big picture—the finished program, the final feature. But just like in crafting, it’s the little details that hold it all together.
When I’m writing code or designing a feature, it’s the small decisions that matter. A single misplaced bracket, a typo in a variable name, or a missing semicolon—those tiny things can break the whole system. But when everything is in place, even the smallest part of the code, it makes the whole program run smoothly. It’s like when you crochet a tiny stitch—on its own, it might seem insignificant, but when you put all the pieces together, it creates something much bigger than the sum of its parts.
I’ve learned that the process of making a feature, or building a system, is more than just checking off tasks. It’s about paying attention to every little detail, making sure each part fits into the bigger picture. Just like I had to carefully count every stitch when making my turtle, I have to be precise with every line of code I write. Each small step leads to something much more meaningful.
Looking back, I’m actually grateful for those “grandma hobbies” I wasn’t always fond of. They taught me something I carry with me in my work every day: the importance of the small things. They might seem trivial at first, but those little details can make all the difference in the end.
Top comments (3)
Reusing old bonnets for yarn just shows how thinking outside the box can be super helpful—whether you’re crafting or coding. As devs, we’re always stuck in situations where we have to get creative with solutions, and honestly, that little trick I did as a kid is a solid reminder that being resourceful is a game-changer.
Whether it's making a scarf, a turtle, or writing code, the process is rarely smooth, and it’s through those revisions and mistakes that growth happens. Teaching me to embrace the journey, not just focus on the final result.
Setbacks are normal and shouldn't discourage you from continuing