Confessions From a Jack of All Trades

What happens when a multi-passionate mother embraces slow living

There is a particular kind of guilt, a sharp little intake of breath, that accompanies the remembrance of an abandonment of self. A reminder blusters in out of nowhere, and the immediate sting translates into all sorts of stories.

I got an e-mail from a company that sells yarn, and it made me cry.

I was sitting on the couch, laptop propped up on a pillow on my knees. My two kids were deeply invested in an elaborate make-believe game that involved a plastic princess tiara, a small bucket of acorns, and all of the tape in the tape dispenser. In between their shrieks and shouts as they dashed about the living room, they spotted the tears running down my face.

“Mama, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” The alarm in my son’s voice prompted my daughter to scoot in next to me so she could run her little finger over my cheek, wiping my tears away.

“Nothing baby. I’m just a little sad because… I miss knitting.” I sniffed, dabbing at my eyes to prevent any the escape of any more mascara. I put my arm around my daughter and looked up reassuringly at my son. “I’m fine, just being a little silly.”

My daughter tilted her head to the side and replied, “Oh. Well, you should go knit then, if you miss knitting!” She planted a kiss on my cheek, bounced back up off the couch, and they resumed their game.

How ridiculous. Crying in the middle of the day because of an e-mail from a yarn company? In this economy? As we sit here on the doorstep of impending national political armageddon and worldwide climate doom?!

I love knitting, though I am not very good at it because I don’t actually knit very often. I have so much beautiful yarn that is languishing away in a drawer under my bed, and thus I cannot possibly buy any more. That sting I felt? Those unexpected tears? It was guilt, guilt for neglecting a hobby that I love, a hobby I have invested time and money into, a hobby that feels like a small but meaningful part of my identity. A shiver of imposter syndrome. Can I even call myself a knitter if I am not actively knitting right now?

How many other mini passions have I collected? Hobbies or skills or pursuits that bring me joy, alongside that sting of guilt when I inevitably don’t practice them as much as I would like?

Sourdough bread making brings me immense satisfaction, but I didn’t refresh my starter for months because I am allergic to turning the oven on in the summer.

I love gardening, but this year I didn’t plant a single seed or start from the nursery.

Painting watercolor sets my soul at ease, but I couldn’t tell you the last time I touched my paints.

I love sewing, but I have never actually found a good place to set up my sewing machine, and thus have never really learned to use it properly.

I’ve already mentioned knitting. I’ve been at it for over five years, but I have never finished anything but a scarf and a pile of “blankets” for my daughter’s dolls.

Does it matter that all of these activities are self-taught? Does it matter that I generally practice them alone? Does it matter that these hobbies all fall firmly into the camp of feminine, domestic, even homestead-y? That they fall so neatly in line under my identity as The Ancestral Homekeeper?

The thing about hobbies is, of course, that they are never just hobbies. They collect around us and become ambassadors for our personalities. They are bits of ourselves that we can share with strangers, things we can bond over with our friends. In a world where talking about money or politics can set our nervous systems instantly ablaze, hobbies are a reliable conversation choice.

Hobbies can also be how we see ourselves. I want to be the type of mother who never looks at her phone because she is always capably dividing her attention between the knitting in her lap and the gentle education of her children. I want to be the mother who never buys sliced bread from the store because her baking schedule is ingrained and effortless, and always ensures fresh sourdough bread for her family to eat.

Some might say I’ve consumed too much trad wife media recently, even if I am doing it through my lens of queer anti-Colonial Capitalist Patriarchy feminist. But I’ve been making bread for almost a decade now. I have sweet teenage memories of painting watercolors alongside my father as he worked on his oil canvases. And I have been mending and sewing ever since I had ballet shoes and costumes to maintain, beginning at age four! So many of these domestic hobbies have been a part of me for much longer than this current trend in anti-feminist housewife glorification.

And still, I push these hobbies aside. What have I been doing with my time?

Well, those kids sure do take up a lot of it. I knew that homeschooling would be an enormous commitment, not just to my children, but to myself and the kind of mother I want to be. I knew I would be giving up so much extra time to focus on them. I didn’t account for the fact that there’s no custodian in a homeschool setting! The amount of cleaning that goes into homeschooling is absolutely astounding.

Then there’s the regular household chores — the never ending triumvirate of dishes, laundry, and kids’ clutter collection. Even when splitting duties with a spouse, those are daunting.

That brings us to paid work. Some homeschool / stay-at-home moms manage to keep very part-time jobs, or perhaps a freelance client or two. This is…beyond difficult, for most of us.

I have been transitioning out of the traditional labor market since the pandemic. Or should I say that the labor market has shown a disinterest in me since the pandemic? With the rise of AI in marketing and copywriting, and the motherhood penalty in general, the opportunities for well-paying flexible part time work have been slim.

It is hard to overstate the magnitude of the signs I have gotten from the universe that I am not quite in the right place — yet. Geographically, financially, spiritually, and most of all, vocationally. I am on the right path, the cogs have been slowly clicking, around and around, into place. I know that I have two twin purposes.

I was put here, on this Earth, to raise my children in as strong and loving a way as possible. And I was put here to write. I don’t think I can do either without the other. My children have helped me to grow in ways that wouldn’t otherwise be possible, and I have needed that growth to carry me through the hours of compulsive typing. I needed to have them in order to know what I am even writing for. And writing has acted as an emotional valve, allowing me to process my thoughts, fears, and complex PTSD in a way that allows me to be more fully present for my children.

So in the limited free time I have left after tending children and home, I have solely been reading, studying, and writing. I have taken a handful of writing craft courses and workshops. I am in a beautifully unique writing studio that meets weekly with writers from around the world and a teacher who is dedicated to “making good writers great.” (

Jennifer Lauck

over at Blackbird Studio, if you are interested!) I am writing, just about every single day.

Will I ever publish my novel to huge acclaim and financial reward? I hope so, but I know the odds. Has my commitment to this writing hurt me financially? Well, seeing as how all of my dozens upon dozens (upon dozens) of attempts to secure more paid marketing/pr/copywriting work have proved fruitless, no. Has it taken any time I have for my hobbies — the knitting and gardening and painting? Yes. *sob.* Will I ever learn to play that beautiful dusty piano in the corner of the living room? Perhaps. But likely not as long as my children are this young.

It is okay to release the guilt that pricks when I remember my long-neglected hobbies. There are many seasons in life, and this season demands more time than I currently have to give. It is ok to slow down on the practicing of my many passions as I continue to navigate this life with mindful presence.

If slow living is about stripping away the things in life that make us feel harried and rushed, then we cannot replace those things with a half a dozen hobbies that cause us to miss the slow, simple joys of just being. How can we notice the late afternoon light that angles in through the window, illuminating a vase of flowers we have sitting there on the table? It is perfectly acceptable to have a grab bag of hobbies, but we cannot let them cause a panic in our hearts when we don’t tend them. We must accept our current season and know that their time will come again, eventually. We are who we are without the external activities that we believe define us.

Perhaps one day I will be able to knit without looking at my work, so that I can take in the world around me without furrowing my brow or googling how to knit two together, continental. Or maybe my house will be neat and tidy enough to have a dedicated corner to house my palette and brushes so I might capture a scene out the window in my paints when inspiration strikes. But right now, every moment of my limited spare time will feed my writing.

And in that flash of recognition, I find contentment in knowing my purpose.