I knocked softly. A barely audible sound only a teen can make came from inside—permission to enter. Stepping into the dimly lit room, I saw my daughter’s face still flushed from the tears that had flowed so hard just hours ago—at the airport, in the car on the way home. She sat cross-legged on her bed, fingers moving deftly with her crochet hook, looping stitch after stitch into a long, golden chain. Even without knowing much about crochet (I’m remedial at best when it comes to crafts), I could see the beginnings of something beautiful—a yellow blanket taking shape in her lap.
The room was growing darker as the afternoon faded into evening. I reached for the light. “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t want any light.” I hesitated but let my hand fall away. When I was a kid, my mom would have told me, “You’ll ruin your eyes.” But I knew better than to say that now. I could sense what she needed—darkness, a cocoon, a space to feel without the harsh glare of a mirror catching her reflection, without the world demanding anything of her. She didn’t need to see her stitches; she needed to feel them.
And wasn’t that the essence of this moment? Learning to feel, to emote, to move through her teen emotions rather than around them. Because this wasn’t just sadness. This was grief.
This was the ache of saying goodbye to a sister—not by blood, but by something just as deep. A bond woven through months of shared laughter, whispered secrets, inside jokes, late-night talks, and the kind of understanding that doesn’t need words. The kind of connection that changes you, that becomes part of your very being.
This was the gift of sharing a year of our life with an exchange student.
The quiet wrapped around her, just like the darkness. Her fingers continued their rhythmic work, muscle memory guiding her even as her mind swirled with feelings too big for words. I stood with her for a moment, but I knew. This was hers to process, in her own way, in her own time.
And then there was the color: yellow; Louise’s favorite. Maybe she was making the blanket to send to her—something warm and tangible to bridge the distance between here and France. Or maybe she was making it for herself, a quiet tribute to a relationship that had woven itself so deeply into her life.
A reminder that grief doesn’t just ache—it also transforms.
Either way, the stitches continued, each one holding love, memory, and the quiet power of moving through.
I like to think I’m good at reading people, but teenagers are complex and ever-shifting, and I’m still learning to meet her where she is. So I left her there in the dark—crocheting, creating, and processing. I hoped she felt the quiet comfort of my presence in the background, a reminder that she didn’t have to face her grief and teen emotions alone.
Later, as I sat with my own reflections, I felt a wave of gratitude that she was able to self-soothe in such a grounded, healthy way—not by disappearing into her phone, but by anchoring herself in rhythm, in texture, in the slow magic of making something by hand. Without access to social media, there was no doom scrolling, no digital distraction. Just yarn, breath, and the steady rhythm of her own two hands.
And then I thought back to the seeds we had planted early on.
The unique educational settings we chose for her were designed with nervous system regulation and emotional intelligence at their core. They emphasized the importance of working with the hands before ever picking up a pencil. Toddlers rolled and unrolled yarn, learned to finger knit, and gradually moved into more advanced handcrafts—not as busywork, but as a way of developing the brain and nervous system through fine motor skills to cultivate focus and resilience. (That early focus resonated deeply with this Occupational Therapist mama.)
Additionally, movement wasn’t seen as a disruption; it was honored as a vital way to move through big feelings. These environments echoed what we tried to cultivate at home: space for emotions to be felt, expressed, and worked through—never shamed or shut down.
Now that she’s a teen, my reminders about emotions are usually met with eye rolls (and dramatic sighs, if we’re being honest). When I nudge her to talk about how she’s feeling, or gently remind her that emotions still need tending—even if not with me—I often get the, “I know, Mom” treatment.
And that’s okay. Because I also see her turning toward the few people in her life she trusts to hold space for her, the ones who don’t try to fix her or minimize her pain. And just as importantly, I see her turning toward the art and creativity that have long been her outlets for joy—crochet, music, movement—the practices that ground her when words feel out of reach.
Parenting can feel like years of planting seeds you’re not sure will ever sprout.
But in that dimly lit room, as I watched her stitch her way through sorrow, I felt something shift. A small but steady sign that the roots were taking hold. That the foundation we’d worked so hard to build was beginning to bloom in its own way, in its own time. She knew, without needing a prompt, how to let her teen emotions move through her body—one loop, one stitch, one breath at a time.
And I can only hope that this knowing stays with her. That when life brings more goodbyes, more grief, more uncertainty—and it will—she’ll remember what it means to sit in the darkness and feel. To trust that she can make it through. To know that even in the heaviest moments, her body carries the wisdom to move forward.
