When I design knitting patterns, I don’t start by asking: Will this look impressive online? I start somewhere else. I ask: Will someone actually want to live in this?
Because for me, the most meaningful knits are not the ones photographed perfectly for a single moment. Knits for real life are the ones that become part of someone’s ordinary life. The sweater thrown over pajamas on a cold morning. The camisole layered under a cardigan all summer. Those handmade objects you reach year after year. Those are the knits I care about designing.
My Design Philosophy: Wearability First
I think a lot about wearability when I design. Not in a restrictive way. Not in a “basic equals better” way. I want my patterns to feel comfortable to wear, intentional to knit, adaptable to real lifestyles… basically, worth the time they ask from the knitter!
Because knitting takes resources: Time, energy, attention, and materials. And I believe those things matter.
When someone chooses to knit one of my patterns, they are giving part of their life to that project. I never take that lightly.
One of the biggest challenges is balancing creativity with functionality. Statement pieces are exciting. Dramatic textures, unusual shapes, and highly detailed construction—they capture attention quickly. But they can sometimes become difficult to wear. On the other hand, extremely practical pieces may feel uninspiring if they lack personality or emotional resonance. I try to design patterns that feel expressive and wearable. Pieces that still feel special, even while existing comfortably inside someone’s real life.
I also believe knitters are not all seeking the same emotional experience. Some want comfort, others want softness, and some want transformation. This changes how I approach design. So, instead of creating for a single aesthetic, I think in terms of emotional landscapes for knits for real life. Let me give you some examples:
The Leaf Garland is one of the clearest examples of this philosophy. It’s simple. Scrap-friendly. Free. And yet, it carries something important. It reminds me that knitting does not always need to be made into a garment to matter. Sometimes, creativity lives in small details. A handmade decoration. A seasonal ritual. A way to use leftover yarn intentionally instead of letting it disappear into storage boxes forever.
Projects like this solve a very real problem for knitters. We accumulate scraps. Half skeins. Remnants that feel too precious to throw away and too small to use. The challenge becomes deciding what deserves your energy. The Leaf Garland turns leftovers into something meaningful without requiring a huge commitment. And honestly, I love that kind of project.
The Evelyn Camisole reflects another part of my design philosophy: Comfort is not laziness. There is something deeply grounding about garments that feel easy to wear. Not boring. Not forgettable. Just supportive. The Evelyn Camisole is for the knitter who wants softness and rhythm. The kind of piece that layers naturally into real life instead of waiting for the “right occasion.” That matters to me.
When knitters create garments that they actually wear, the emotional value of handmade clothing deepens. The trade-off, of course, is that highly wearable garments sometimes appear quieter online. But I think this has its own power. Especially in a world that constantly asks us to perform visually.
Then there’s Alectrona. This design leans into a different emotional space entirely. Thoughtful. The kind of knit that feels like rainy afternoons, old libraries, and worn book pages. I designed Alectrona for knitters who love details that reveal themselves slowly. Not loud complexity. Intentional complexity.
Because there’s another challenge in knitting design: Highly intricate garments can become exhausting if every detail competes for attention. Alectrona taught me that restraint can make a design feel more timeless. That choosing where not to add complexity matters just as much as deciding where to include it.
At the same time, I never want practicality to erase wonder. The Fairy Lights Sweater exists because knitting should still feel magical sometimes. Not childish. Not unrealistic. Just enchanting in a wearable way. I think many knitters crave this balance.
They want garments that function in everyday life while still carrying emotion, beauty, and imagination. The challenge is designing magic that lasts beyond novelty. That means thinking carefully about silhouette, comfort, and styling. A whimsical sweater still needs to integrate into someone’s wardrobe if it’s going to become part of their life.
One of the values I care about most in design is flexibility. Bodies differ. Preferences differ. Lives differ. That’s why patterns like Black Bat matter to me. Options create ownership. Different sleeve lengths, necklines, and garment lengths. These choices allow knitters to shape the project around themselves instead of forcing themselves into a fixed vision. This approach adds complexity to the design process. Grading multiple options requires more planning, testing, and clarity.
But the impact matters. Because when knitters feel represented in a pattern’s possibilities, they are more likely to create something that genuinely belongs in their life. They create knits for real life.
The Emotional Layer of Wearability
Wearability is not only practical. It’s emotional. The garments we reach for repeatedly often become connected to comfort, safety, confidence, or identity. They become familiar. They become knits for real life.
And I think knitting patterns deserve to honor that emotional relationship. Not every piece needs to be dramatic to matter deeply. I don’t think knitting needs to choose between beauty and practicality. I think the most meaningful designs hold both.
Because the knits that stay with us are rarely the ones that only looked beautiful once. They’re the ones we keep reaching for. Again and again.