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Creative Modifications
"Surviving life’s plot twists with yarn, loud worship music, and a stubborn streak of hope."
Hello and howdy from Ontario, Canada — I’m glad you’ve found your way to this creative corner I’m building for my art and storytelling.
I hold diplomas in Visual Creative Arts & Design and Medical Office Administration, blending creativity with strong organizational skills while I continue seeking where God is leading me.
A lifelong maker, I knit, crochet, and explore fibre arts, support a Southern Ontario knitting group through communications, and volunteer creating social media content for Abbey Cats Adoptions.
My work is shaped by faith, resilience, and healing, and I’m currently developing a character-driven fictional world exploring identity, redemption, and hope in unexpected places.
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Life. It’s a bit like a half-finished knitting project, isn’t it? One moment, you’re confidently purling along, the pattern clear, the yarn a beautiful, consistent thread. The next, you’ve dropped a stitch, the yarn has knotted itself into a tangled mess, and you’re left staring at a confusing jumble of loops and loose ends.
And in that moment, it’s easy to want to give up. To unravel the whole thing and toss it aside. I’ve been there, more times than I can count. The plot twists of life have a way of doing that to you, leaving you feeling like a hollow shell of who you used to be. But here’s the secret I’m learning, one awkward step at a time: that mess isn’t the end of the story. It’s the moment the real creative modifications begin.
It’s about finding that stubborn streak of hope, even when the world feels loud and overwhelming. For me, that’s found in the solace of a favorite worship song cranked to eleven, the rhythmic click of knitting needles, or the gentle hum of an air conditioner on a quiet afternoon. These aren’t just distractions; they’re the tools we use to patch the holes, to re-knot the broken threads, and to start seeing the unique, beautiful pattern that is our own life.
Sometimes, the modification isn’t about fixing the old pattern at all. It’s about letting go of what you thought it was supposed to be. I remember one project, a pair of crochet socks that I was determined to create to prove to myself and the more experienced knitters at Stick’n Needle Guild that crochet socks are bad. I spent hours on Ravelry splicing patterns from the toe up trying to figure out what and how I was going to do this with goregous greens hand-dyed yarn sent to me in a old Ravelry Swap (ooh those were fun and frustrating at the same time) . I had crochet on 2.75mm hooks and my fingers where aching as I crochet tighter than others and reached the part to do the heel. That’s when the momentum and confidence evaporated! The fabric I had made surely like the knitted socks I had seen and felt so much at that time but the desire to prove it had left. My heart wasn’t in it. So I put it down. I left it there, neatly folded up in a sparkly purple gift bag that fit it just right, for months. For years. It felt like a failure. But then, one afternoon, I picked it up again, not with the intention of continuing, but of unraveling it. I pulled the working yarn out, and the whole thing came undone in one long, satisfying whoosh. That yarn wasn’t wasted; it was freed. It became the raw material for something new, something that truly spoke to me.
That’s the kind of creative modification I’m talking about. It’s the courage to hit pause on a life that doesn’t fit anymore, to unravel the expectations and the “shoulds” that were never truly ours to begin with. It’s the moment we realize that our life’s masterpiece isn’t about following a pre-written pattern but about making a pattern of our own. It’s about taking the tangled threads of our past and weaving them into a future that feels more authentic, more vibrant, and more like us.
Because a perfect, flawless project is nice, but a project with its share of creative modifications tells a story. It speaks of survival. It celebrates the journey. It’s a testament to the fact that even when the yarn gets tangled and the pattern goes sideways, we have the power to create something new and beautiful from the chaos.
With the past week–and the ongoing circus that is my placement situation–I can look back and see how convinced I was that I had to be “adult” and perfectly put together, just like everyone else appears to be. When in reality, all I really needed to do was my best, put in a smidge of effort, and make myself look vaguely respectable.
I, too, can fake having my ducks in a row–walk into a place of business, introduce myself, speak like I know what I’m doing, and walk out with much-needed information–having successfully advocated for myself thanks to a couple of indispensable knitterly friends who kept encouraging me until I did it.
When internally and usually … my ducks weren’t in a row. My ducks w ere golden-brown, seasoned with a hint of spice, and neatly arranged on a antique platter–ready to be served to whoever saw through the mask of faking it. Which is frankly impressive, considering that twelve hours earlier I was grumbling, angry and punchy regarding the entire ordeal of placement.
So, let’s pick up those knitting needles and get back to work. Let’s make some glorious modifications. Let’s embrace the beautiful chaos of a life still under construction. The best parts are yet to be made. -
It’s still the morning of day two of waiting for an update from CTS Canadian Career College about my placement. It’s been confirmed that I’m not the only student the school hasn’t been able to find a placement for, and it’s a significant enough issue that one instructor is now looking into it. Knowing this has helped a great deal, as did the distraction from two friends yesterday. They kept me occupied while I ripped out seams and tried on scrubs after a talented friend made alterations.
Unfortunately, today is a new day, and I feel like a liquid splatter just after it has hit a surface. While I’m grateful for the extra time to finish up the rest of the scrubs, I’m not enjoying the sensation I’m having as I write this with the rest of the day—and possibly the week—looming ahead. This waiting for something to happen is exactly what I was trying to get away from last September when I started classes. It’s ironic that I’m back here again.
I’m trying to focus on the good things: writing, blogging, setting up my marketing, and puttering around my apartment. I even roughly sorted a stack of index cards with terminology into bundles to go over. I’ve also been doing meditative deep breathing and thinking about my current knitting project: two-at-a-time toe-up socks on 2.75mm ChiaoGoo Lace circulars, using leftover yarn from a late knitting group member.
But the waiting still consumes my entire day. I think I’ve checked my school email forty times this morning and my phone every time a notification chimes. I’m not liking this place of waiting. If I’m not focused on something, I feel the familiar head-space of autopilot—the blank stare setting in.
It’s going to be a long, tedious day of bugging my friends WP and YM.
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The Tanya of last september was nowhere near as strong as I am today–nor as aware of all the things stress can do to this body I’m living in. Sure, I knew to some degree what stress was capable of; afterall, I’ve been around the block a few times, and I’ve seen its effects in my circle. But in some delusional way, I half believed I was beneath its reach–like stress didn’t quality to touch me because of my story and lifestyle. Just one more thing I thought I didn’t “quality” for.
I knew I had to go back to school and retrain in something other than the arts, and I thought Medical Office Administration was a valid, employable field I just had to push through. I had this misconception that I’d be in class with a bunch of sharp-as-a-tack 20-somethings, full of sass to go with their skills. I had compared it to how I thought it might be with the younger crowd I’d seen at Mountain Park Church—but still, I plunged in with my big girl pants on.
Boy, was I wrong.
Did that stop my head from spinning? Of course not. It only made it spin faster as I compared myself to others—especially the few who were lightning-fast at finding answers online. I felt behind before I even had a chance to catch my breath.
But I can say confidently now: I’d much rather work with a program (MS Word, PowerPoint, Excel) than flip through pages of a textbook looking for numbers. I’m proficient in file management, not in memorizing 5–8 different three-letter spellings for medical terms, where each one means something entirely different. And yet, in some twisted sense of torture, I kind of got a kick out of medical terminology—even though, after four hours of it, I’d be cross-eyed with a tension headache. (Pay no attention to the 150 stacks of index cards scattered across my space—just some of the terms I want to etch into my mind somehow.)
My husband used to say I was quiet in person but put me in front of a screen and keyboard and I turn into a social butterfly.
long with the funding for school, I was given a living allowance that has been immensely helpful. Still, I’m reminded of what Stan Lee once wrote: “With great power comes great responsibility.”
One of my instructors and a few classmates brushed off my comments about gaining weight since school started, saying it was “normal.” But that only made me feel worse. Weight has been a lifelong struggle for me. My dad’s offhand comment back in grade six— “They’ll have to roll you in a tarp to get you down the aisle”—is just one of the zingers that’s stuck with me all these years. His and my aunt’s meek attempts to “discourage” me from eating only made me more distrustful—more hateful toward food and more distant from them.
During the weekdays, I genuinely enjoyed having somewhere to be—even if it was just the corner of my bedroom, dressed and decent from the waist up. I used food to soothe the worries and silence the comparison game, while others leaned on their faith, saying, “Give it all to Jesus.” Oh, I was giving it to Jesus—every 3 to 6 minutes after classes ended, when I no longer had to maintain a “together,” focused version of myself. The one who hid her insecurities behind jokes and being silly.
I realized that my love of doing things my way (even if it only makes sense to me) played a big part in how I got things done—and for the most part, that was fine. I stumbled my way through Medical Terminology class because there just wasn’t enough time to spend on each exercise or task the way I needed in order to fully comprehend and keep up with the pace. WP kept reminding me that just because class was done didn’t mean I had to stop learning—I could go back into those chapters and take my time later.
Often, it felt like a battle between doing things “Tanya’s way” versus Tanya’s need for perfectionism. I swear, it was like those two traits were wrestling in a mud pit. Both instructors I had—Angela and Attila—said things in such a way that flipped the “Okay/Safe” switch in my mind. Angela, in particular, made things click during the several classes I had with her. With Attila’s classes (which were mostly all the programs), I barely had time to breathe, let alone sit and knit like I used to. God bless those two instructors beyond belief—ease their aches, ease their frustrations, and grow their gardens.
Stress didn’t just play havoc on my waistline—it hit my joints and muscles with aches and pains I’d never felt in all my seventeen years of knitting. Surely, that couldn’t all be blamed on approaching fifty or the added weight. It got to the point where I couldn’t handle outside stress or drama without, well… blowing it out of proportion and sending myself into a tizzy. I was (and still am) always waiting for the next shoe to drop, rushing to the next task at hand.
As much as it unsettled me, I so enjoyed that sense of purpose—the satisfaction of completing each task and report.
It’s been a wild ride, like having my head outside a spinning top. I’ve been preparing for a placement that has yet to come—testing how I feel in scrubs, waiting for word. I’ve got lunches packed, scrubs altered to fit my funky shape, and a growing awareness that this blog and domain circus, which Attila inspired me to start, might be part of something bigger. It’s giving me a sense of responsibility, possibly preparing me for employment, when for so long I felt like oil forced to mix with water.
Up until recently, it felt like I was finally being seen and given a shot to try. Now, it feels more like Niagara Falls has let me down, with no businesses willing to take a student. I don’t have the school’s name or my instructors beside me out here, and that’s left a lingering fear of failure in the back of my mind.
Still, I’ll keep waiting, keep stalking my inbox, and be smart with this time I have.
“We don’t always get to choose the challenges, but we do get to choose how we grow from them. If you’re navigating change, healing, or starting over –consider this your invitation to be part of th ejourney. Let’s keep showing up, learning, and cheering each other on.”
