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Some people are just knit-worthy. You know the ones—the people you can’t help but knit for. For me, that’s always been my husband’s cousin, someone I’ve watched grow from a shy preteen into a kind and confident woman. She’s always cherished every handmade gift, no matter how small, so when she announced she was expecting her first child, my first thought was, “I’m going to knit for the baby!”

Time flew, and before I knew it, her baby was a toddler. But once I had the idea and the perfect yarn, everything clicked into place. The knitting flew by in less than a month because every stitch felt like a celebration of this special little girl. When I finally saw her wearing it—running around, playing, and completely living in it—I knew I’d made something truly special.

This is that knit. It’s a top-down, raglan cardigan with an elegantly simple lace stitch that’s both easy to memorize and completely addictive. You’ll find yourself saying, “Just one more row…” until it’s done—and then you’ll want to see it out in the wild, being worn and loved the way it was meant to be.

My little model put hers through a rigorous toddler durability test during our photo shoot—snacks, dirt, and all! But no worries: a little lint rolling and a quick spot clean later, the cardigan was good as new.

Since then, this pattern has been tested by knitters all over the world, and the stories that came back made my heart so full. Little ones refusing to take their cardigans off. Toddlers twirling around like tiny runway models. Kids who insisted on wearing theirs everywhere. That's the thing about knitting for children—when you get it right, they know, and they'll show you in the best possible ways.

And let’s be honest—who doesn’t love a mini-me moment? If you’re already imagining how cute this cardigan would look on you, guess what? There’s a grown-up version of the Nydia Cardigan available too. Because why should kids have all the fun?

In September 2018, I walked out of my local yarn shop with a sweater quantity of yarn and a familiar feeling. You know the one: that on-the-brink of starting something new, creative juices flowing, and endless possibilities feeling that only a maker can know. I didn’t have a pattern in mind, but I knew that this yarn would become something special.

Then something funny happened: I kept unintentionally sketching the same design. A pullover with cabled panels, a rounded neckline, “cold” shoulders, and set-in armholes appeared eight times, to be exact, on different days and in separate sketchbooks. It was almost as if the yarn was telling me, "This is what I want to be."

Now with a clear vision in mind, I started swatching. The yarn by itself was beautiful, soft, and airy with fantastic drape, but it lacked the cozy factor I was going for. When I paired it with a mohair/silk blend, the fabric transformed. It had depth and warmth, and it felt like kittens and clouds—exactly what I wanted.

In late 2019, I cast on and quickly realized that top-down construction wasn’t practical for the design I had sketched, so I restarted from the bottom up. When I tried it on for the first time, something was off. I frogged back and reknit the yoke. Still not right. I frogged again. And again. I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong. All I know is that I was feeling pretty deflated. The yarn was practically begging me to stop frogging and reknitting it, and I needed a break.

Apparently, a three-year break.

Over those years, thoughts of “needing to finish that sweater” hung over my head. Would I ever finish? Had I failed? But while the sweater waited, I kept learning—about fit, grading, size inclusivity. I poured that knowledge into other patterns. And each time I released something new, I’d pull this sweater out with renewed determination. Yet I still didn’t have the answer.

It finally hit me in fall 2023. What if I changed everything? V-neck instead of scoop neck. Closed shoulders instead of open. Raglan sleeves instead of set-in. The revisions came together perfectly, and when I finally tried it on again . . . it worked!

This design challenged me more than any other. There was a span of time where I didn’t think I could finish it. But things got easier—things fell into place—when I stopped trying to force an idea and let the design take me where it wanted to go all along. In hindsight, it feels a little like serendipity.

It was, simply, “Meant to Vee.”

There are hats you make because you need a hat. And then there’s the Novemberist—a hat with a story behind it.

November 2018 felt like it held multiple lifetimes. That month, I had my first trunk show at a local yarn shop, where I picked up two yarns for a hat design I had brewing. Then my husband Cody, his little cousin, and I took our first trip to Victoria, British Columbia, to explore the city, catch live music, and enjoy great food. And after all that, I attempted something I'd never done before: stranded colorwork.

The design process was playful and exciting. I developed three chevron charts, swatched two, and chose one for this pattern—the other would later become my Kestra Hat. While making the very first hat in the colors I'd chosen at the LYS, I learned to keep my floats relaxed, to catch them properly, and to maintain the right color dominance. It was awkward and fun, using both my hands together in a way that was entirely new.

For the final sample, Cody helped me choose colors from my stash: a warm red with rust and strawberry undertones for the chevrons, paired with natural for the background. I made the brim doubly thick, both for warmth and because I loved how a pop of color would peek out from beneath it. I'd done something similar on another hat pattern called Corbin, and I really loved the look.

The hat that emerged from that memorable month became part of the Novemberist set, a hat and mitt pairing that’s waiting to become part of your story too. What will your November look like?

I didn't grow up watching much TV, but my husband Cody comes from a Star Trek-loving family. The Next Generation (or TNG) was basically always playing at his dad’s house while Cody and I were dating. After we’d been married for a while, he wanted me to actually watch the show—like, really commit—and I figured, okay, why not.

I got hooked.

Here’s the thing: they don’t really make shows like this anymore—shows that actually feel good to watch. It’s sci-fi on the surface, but what TNG really gets at is something deeper. Picard and the crew face impossible dilemmas and somehow always choose the right thing. Data learning to be human. The belief that we can be better. It reminds you that doing the right thing is possible.

So when I saw Lady Dye Yarns had a Star Trek: The Next Generation club and no designer, I texted her immediately. No hesitation. I knew exactly what I wanted to create—a shawl that captured the heart of the show, those Starfleet uniforms, that sense of mission and purpose.

Farpoint is that shawl. The name itself is a salute to the pilot episode, and the design channels the bold color blocking of Starfleet uniforms: red for Command, gold for Operations, blue for Sciences. Four bobbles represent captain’s pips, but you can customize them to match your own rank or make it entirely yours. Mosaic knitting creates a stunning, textured star field without the complexity of stranded colorwork.

This is a shawl for Trekkies who want to wear their values as much as their fandom.

Are you ready to boldly knit where no one has knit before?

Is there a type of garment that you haven’t made yet? Perhaps you've never knitted (or worn!) a vest before. Or maybe you’ve already made a few and you’re looking for a pattern that feels fresh—something quick, transitional, and size-inclusive for the season ahead.

I was in the first camp when I tuned into an Instagram Live one afternoon, where two besties talked all about a vest-along they were about to participate in. As they excitedly chatted about silhouettes, textures, and how they’d style a vest, I couldn't think about anything else. Before the live even ended, I’d grabbed the nearest notepad and scribbled a few rough sketches based on another pattern I had in test knitting at the time.

The first sketch was heavily cabled, front and back. “Keep it simple!”, I thought to myself. But it was the third sketch—the last one on that notepad—that stood out as “the one.”

I started a spreadsheet and ordered yarn faster than it took you to read this sentence. One package was coming from another state, the other from a couple hours north of me. Tracking said nearly a week. Torture!

To my relief, the yarn arrived four days sooner than estimated, and just in time for me to work on it while podcasting and watching You’ve Got Mail with my own bestie during her visit from Canada. There’s something special about knitting with someone you love in the room, even if you’re both just doing your own thing.

As I made progress on the pattern and then worked on a second sample, my husband—completely unaware of what (or who!) had inspired me to drop everything else—started calling it the Bestie Vestie. I loved how that name rolled off the tongue. It was cute, memorable, and different from anything I’ve named before.

The icing on the cake: 90 test knitters helped bring this pattern to life, and so many of them said the same thing—this is the best-fitting thing they’ve ever made. If you decide to make one too, whether as your first vest or a new one to add to a growing collection, I hope that it’s your Bestie Vestie yet.