There’s something quietly grounding about routine — even when the rhythm of life looks nothing like it once did.
Before my stroke, my days were filled with analysing project programmes and budgets, walking building sites, sitting through meetings, and poring over architectural plans. Now my “toolbox” is stacked with yarn swatches, shipping labels, and camera lenses. The pace is slower, the tasks are different, but the satisfaction remains. There is still problem-solving, still physical effort, and still the reward of getting something finished — only now, it comes one stitch, one parcel, one photo at a time.
Of course, the adjustment has not been without frustration. Reading, once a deep passion, is still a challenge. I was the child who carried books everywhere. Mum loved to tell the story of how, during a family holiday in the South Island, while everyone else went exploring, I disappeared into the wardrobe to Narnia and barely looked up from my book the entire trip. That love of stories followed me all my life — until the stroke. Losing the easy flow of words has been the hardest loss of all.
Even simple tasks — checking an address label, updating a product description — can take five times longer than they used to. But I’ve learned to persist. With patience and sheer stubbornness, I’ve found my own way through the digital world, one click and one correction at a time.
What has helped most, though, is the rhythm Caroline and I have found together. We’ve always been a good team — years of shared projects built on trust and respect — but this business has brought us even closer. There is a quiet synchronicity now. She senses when I’m struggling with my vision; I know when she needs to step out of the knit room for a breather. We’ve grown better at listening, at laughing off the little setbacks, and at celebrating the smallest wins.
One of the biggest shifts has been learning to ask for help. Before, I was the one others turned to when something needed fixing. Now there are times when I need a hand — aligning a photo, proofreading a listing, or tracking down a missing label. It has not been easy, but I’ve learned that asking for help is not a weakness. It is a way of staying connected.
This chapter of life wasn’t planned. But it has its own rewards. My father had a saying: “Either sink or swim — ultimately, it’s up to you.” I think of that often. These days, I am swimming — sometimes slowly, sometimes against the current — but always moving forward, one stitch at a time.