Knitting Through the Silence: Untangling the Mother Wound

There’s a memory that lingers, one I’ve carried with me for as long as I can remember. It’s of my mother, sitting quietly on the old couch, knitting as the evening shadows stretched across the room. Before anyone arrived, before the sound of neighbors laughing over a card game filled the house, there was only her, the steady rhythm of her needles clicking together, and the silence between us, heavy and sharp. She wasn’t just making doilies or scarves. She was creating distance, stitch by stitch, finding solace in those loops of yarn where the screams of her pain never reached.

For a while, knitting was her way of passing the hours, a small comfort she wrapped herself in as the day folded into night. But something shifted when the neighbors started coming over. They’d gather at our house, play cards or Parchisi at the dining room table, and swap stories over coffee. My father, always the sociable one, welcomed the noise and laughter. My mother, however, latched onto this new routine like a lifeline, as if the clink of dice and shuffle of cards gave her permission to put down her needles and avoid what lingered in the quiet spaces between us.

While they sat at the table with their cards, I was sent outside with the other kids, expected to entertain myself. And I did; I chased fireflies, invented games, climbed fences, and scraped my knees. But even in the joy of those childhood adventures, I felt the weight of what I was escaping. I knew, somehow, that my presence was a burden she needed to escape from. Whether she was knitting alone or shuffling cards with neighbors, the message felt the same: I am too much for her.

I didn’t understand it back then, not fully. But I felt it. And when she’d say things like, “I had to craft to calm my nerves because of you,” I believed her. I believed that I was the cause of her stress, her withdrawal, her need to escape. A quiet guilt settled inside me, this feeling that, simply by being myself, I was too much. My curiosity, my energy, my hunger for connection, it was all too big, too overwhelming. And so I did what many children do: I tried to be smaller, quieter, easier to manage. I tried to be the kind of child she could love without needing to run from.

But no matter how much I tried, that love never came the way I hoped it would.

Now, all these years later, I find myself holding a piece of art she created, the one in the picture above, during that time, a pagoda scene, meticulously crafted stone by stone, bead by bead. There’s an irony in owning it now, this beautiful piece of her handiwork, because in some way, I was the reason for its creation. She built this intricate escape in response to me, to the weight of parenting a child she couldn’t quite connect with. With each pebble she glued in place, she sought relief, constructing more than just a serene image of distant lands. It was her own emotional refuge, a place she could retreat to, far away from me.

This artwork, crafted by her hands during my childhood, feels like a tangible manifestation of the emotional landscape between us, a carefully arranged scene of beauty born from avoidance. And now it sits in my possession, as if the very thing she created to escape me has found its way back to me. It’s a full circle, carrying both the bitterness of rejection and the quiet hope that maybe, in some strange way, this object holds a bridge between us, however fractured that bridge may be.

As I look at it, I can’t help but see the unspoken message: this art exists because of you. I had to build this to survive you. I carried the guilt of that message for so long, believing that I was too much, too loud, too curious, too needy. This art, this silent testimony, once seemed to confirm that belief. But now, I see it differently. The need to escape wasn’t mine to carry. This pagoda is not a monument to my failure as a child, but to her struggle as a mother.

Her need to craft, to glue each tiny stone in place, was not a rejection of me, but an expression of her own limitations, her way of coping with emotions too overwhelming to name. The beauty she built wasn’t meant to punish me, though it felt that way. It was her attempt to carve out some sense of peace, even if it came at the expense of the connection we both craved and deserved.

Knowing this now doesn’t make the hurt disappear. But it does allow me to loosen the grip of guilt that’s been wrapped around my heart for so long. It’s like unraveling a knotted thread, slow, delicate work that takes patience and care. I am learning to see that the child I was, bright, curious, and full of life, was not a burden. I wasn’t too much. I was enough. I always was and have been.

There’s a kind of beauty in this realization, a quiet relief that comes with reclaiming the parts of myself I once tucked away to make others comfortable. That carefree little girl who ran barefoot through the neighborhood streets, who climbed trees and asked too many questions, who saved expensive fish from my cousin’s tank, she deserves to exist in her fullness. And so I’ve begun to invite her back, one memory at a time, weaving her joy and curiosity into the fabric of my present.

This art piece, once a symbol of distance and escape, has now become a symbol of reclamation. It no longer represents her retreat from me; it represents my return to myself. Every stone, every broken piece of glass and bead in that pagoda, every loop of yarn she knitted in silence, was never about my worth. It was about her struggle. And that’s okay. Her struggle is not mine to carry anymore.

Some days, it feels like fumbling through loops in the dark, unsure of what shape this new pattern will take. But I trust that with each stitch, each act of self-compassion and each moment of curiosity, I am creating something whole and beautiful. Unfolding one’s life is a pattern in progress, full of dropped stitches and unexpected loops, but always moving forward. And that forward movement matters.

I no longer need to carry the burden of being responsible for someone else’s emotions. My mother’s need for escape was never mine to fix. What I can do now is hold space for the parts of myself that were silenced and shamed, and allow them to come alive again. I can honor the child within me who was never broken, only misunderstood.

And maybe, just maybe, I can create a new story, not one knitted from guilt and avoidance, but one woven with love, joy, and freedom. Because every stitch matters. Every loop tells a story. And with each new row I knit, I am reminded that I am not here to be small or quiet. I am here to be whole, to be seen in all my fractured glory.

And this time, I will not unravel. This pagoda artwork, once an emblem of what she couldn’t give, now rests in my hands. I hold it not with bitterness, but with a strange sense of peace, knowing that I am the one rewriting the story. It was never my job to carry her need for distance, but it is my responsibility to reclaim the space within me that she couldn’t hold.

And with every breath I take, I am becoming whole, one loop, one stitch, one stone at a time.

☥