In a world of endless scrolling and instant results, there is something quietly radical about fiber arts. To sit down and weave, to knit row after row, to coax felt into form with the slow rhythm of a needle—these are not acts of urgency. They are acts of attention.

I came to weaving in a nontraditional way. I didn’t have money for a loom or lessons. I was a returning student, a single mother scraping together what I could. My first real loom was a backstrap loom I made from old wood dowels and sticks from my yard, and wove with a friend’s discarded yarn. I taught myself from the internet the same way I teach myself anything—piecemeal and imperfectly, but with quiet persistence.

What kept me going wasn’t just curiosity but something deeper; the act of making gave me a sense of agency I struggled to find elsewhere. I was tired, broke, stretched thin—but when I wove, I felt capable. I was doing something real, something rooted.

And I want others to feel that too.

A Return to the Rhythms of Our Hands

Fiber arts are ancient. We’ve spun, dyed, stitched, and woven for millennia. Long before we wrote in books, we told stories in cloth. We slow-crafted out of necessity. And while the need to make our own textiles has faded for many, the need to make has not.

In fact, I believe that need is growing. Now more than ever.

Modern life, by contrast, runs at a much faster pace. We’re surrounded by apps that refresh by the second and news cycles that change before we can even finish absorbing them. Meanwhile, fast-fashion machines produce thousands of low-quality garments per day.

Still from *Yvonne*, 1997 by Rosemarie Trockel. Part of *Fast Fashion / Slow Art*, a global conversation among artists on the effects of fast fashion.

Somewhere amid that speed and consumption, many of us have lost our sense of grounding.

Fiber arts bring us back to something tangible. Something tactile. They ask us to move slowly, repetitively, rhythmically. They ask us to count. To notice. To be with the material in our hands.

There’s comfort in that, and it's not just romantic nostalgia. The rise of knitting, weaving, and other crafts in recent years—especially among younger people—isn’t an accident. Platforms like TikTok and Instagram have seen a notable surge in DIY fiber content since the pandemic, driven by a need for creative grounding, self-regulation, and beauty that can be touched, not just clicked.

It makes sense. Fiber arts offer a place to put your attention when the world feels unsteady, a way to move your body when your mind needs stillness. A sense of rhythm when everything else feels out of sync.

Getting Into the Flow

The benefits of working with fiber are well-documented. Knitting and crochet have been shown to reduce anxiety and depression, improve focus, and even lower blood pressure. Felting can provide a safe outlet for stress and emotion. Weaving, with its patterns and precision, can create a meditative state that’s similar to mindfulness practices.

“Knitting and crochet have been shown to reduce anxiety and depression, improve focus, and even lower blood pressure. ”

Psychologist Mihály Csíkszentmihályi called it flow: that feeling of being so fully immersed in an activity that you lose track of time. Many fiber artists know this feeling well—the soft hum of concentration, the way the world falls away for a little while. It’s not just pleasant, it’s healing.

Occupational therapists have known this for decades. Historically, fiber arts have also been used in occupational therapy and trauma recovery. After WWI and WWII, veterans were taught weaving and knitting to help rebuild fine motor skills and restore a sense of agency and rhythm.

Weaving as occupational therapy at Walter Reed General Hospital in Washington D.C. during World War I. Photo courtesy of otcentennial.org.

Mary Meigs Atwater, often credited with reviving American handweaving in the early 20th century, initially taught weaving as a form of therapy. She wasn’t just restoring a craft; she was restoring people.

There’s something inherently human about working with fiber. We engage our bodies, our eyes, our spatial awareness. We plan, we problem-solve, we make choices. And at the end, we hold something real in our hands—something that didn’t exist before.

Connection Through Craft

Fiber arts aren’t only personal. They’re relational. Shared.

Think of quilting bees. Knitting circles. Communal dye pots—these crafts have always been about more than individual output. Historically, they’re about gathering, learning, witnessing one another’s hands at work. Even today, whether it's in a living room, a class, or an online group, fiber brings people together.

When I teach fiber arts—whether it's weaving, knitting, or felting—I get to witness a kind of gentle transformation in my students. I see them soften into the process. I see the satisfaction in making something real. I hear the shift in their voice when they say, “I made this.” There’s pride, yes—but there’s also connection. To the materials. To themselves. Sometimes, to a memory.

That kind of connection is something many of us crave. We’re hungry for meaning, for creative control, for something to hold. Fiber arts offer that—quietly, reliably, and without requiring perfection.

A Living Lineage

What I also love about fiber arts is that they are deeply democratic. They belong to no one and everyone. Every culture on earth has some relationship to fiber—to cloth, to basketry, to thread. These practices transcend class and age and geography.

“Every culture on earth has some relationship to fiber—to cloth, to basketry, to thread. ”

Some of us were lucky enough to learn fiber arts at the side of a grandmother or neighbor . Others, like me, pieced it together through scraps of online tutorials, donated yarn, and trial-and-error on homemade looms. But no matter how we come to it, we join a lineage that stretches back generations.

There’s something powerful in that. Something steadying. When we weave or knit or felt, we’re not just making—we’re participating. We’re adding our voice to a long, unbroken thread of creativity and survival.

Not Just a Craft, But a Practice

To me, fiber arts aren’t a hobby. They’re a practice. A way of moving through the world. A way of making room—for slowness, for self-trust, for imperfection.

They teach patience. Presence. Problem-solving. They show us how to follow a thread, how to undo a mistake, how to begin again. These lessons aren’t confined to the loom or the needles. They carry over into daily life—into how we speak, how we care for ourselves, how we build things that last.

Fiber arts aren’t the only way to get there, of course. But they are a way. And a beautiful one

So Why Does It Matter Now?

Because we need something steady. Something we can return to when the noise gets loud. Because in a world of automation and overstimulation, there is power in doing something slowly, deliberately, and with your own two hands.

Because making something meaningful—with thread, with patience, with care—is a way of making meaning at all.

Fiber arts matter because we matter. Our attention matters. Our process matters.

And in this moment, when so much asks us to rush, to consume, to disconnect—fiber arts gently ask us to do the opposite.

To slow down.
To connect.
To create.

And to remember that even the smallest thread, when woven with intention, can become something strong.

If You're Nearby...

If you’re in the Philadelphia, PA area and need guidance to start or rekindle your creative journey, contact me and let’s work together!

I believe in slow craft, real connection, and thoughtful conversation. If something in this post sparked a question or memory, reach out—I’d truly love to hear from you. -Karri

Why Fiber Arts Matter Now More Than Ever