Why I Moved the Yarn Again (and Again)

The act of moving objects is the act of locating oneself again. It reestablishes agency in a world where internal chaos often feels untouchable.

Photo by Soraya García on Unsplash

There’s a specific drawer I’ve emptied and refilled more times than I can count. A basket that’s held three different projects in one week. A shelf I organized beautifully and then tore apart two days later because something still didn’t feel right.

To an outsider, it might look obsessive. Indecisive. Maybe even wasteful. But when you live inside a brain shaped by chronic stress, shifting energy, and creative drive that doesn’t follow a linear map, moving the yarn is not just an aesthetic impulse. It is a survival mechanism. A neurological recalibration. A subtle form of emotional triage.

Decluttering Is Not Just About Stuff

Much has been written about the psychological benefits of organizing, about how decluttering space can declutter the mind. This concept has roots in environmental psychology, which suggests that physical environments affect cognition, mood, and stress. A clean space can reduce cognitive load. A clear desk can make problem-solving easier. Visual noise is processed as background stress. So in theory, organizing your space can make your brain more spacious, too.

But that logic falls short for many of us. Especially for artists, neurodivergent thinkers, trauma survivors, or those navigating cycles of illness and depletion. We don’t always declutter to simplify. Sometimes we rearrange because we’re trying to feel safe.

There are days when the yarn is fine where it is. And there are days when its placement feels wrong in my body. Like it is pressing on a bruise I can’t name. So I move it. Not to be efficient. Not to be productive. But to breathe.

Rearranging as Regulation

In trauma-informed somatic frameworks, especially those rooted in polyvagal theory, movement is a critical part of regulation. When a nervous system is stuck in hypoarousal—numb, foggy, collapsed—small physical acts can help bring the body back into a tolerable window of presence. For some people, this looks like rocking, stretching, or pacing. For others, it is folding yarn.

Reorganization becomes a form of subtle reanimation. The act of moving objects is the act of locating oneself again. It reestablishes agency in a world where internal chaos often feels untouchable. In this sense, the drawer is not just a drawer. It is a terrain I can influence when the rest of my life feels like weather.

For those with ADHD or executive function challenges, moving things around also creates novelty. It changes the visual field, which can spark renewed interest or reduce overwhelm. Sometimes the issue is not that we have too much. It is that we have stopped seeing what we have. Reorganizing is how we wake the space up and ourselves with it.

The Shame of the “Shouldn’t You Be Creating?” Voice

Of course, these rituals often come with shame. There is a voice that says, shouldn’t you be making something instead of organizing again? Shouldn’t you be focused on the actual art?

That voice is shaped by a capitalist model of creativity that values output over process. In that model, reorganization is procrastination. A sign of avoidance. But this view ignores how deeply creative work is tied to environment, memory, and mood. Especially for makers who use their art not just to express, but to regulate and recover.

The truth is, I often don’t know what I need from my space until I move something and feel the shift. A box of embroidery floss on a new shelf might unlock a softness I didn’t realize I’d lost. Folding old projects can feel like closing a chapter. Making room for one specific skein of yarn might mean I’m finally ready to return to the piece I abandoned last winter.

Photo by Philip Myrtorp on Unsplash

Order Is Personal, Not Prescribed

Feminist disability studies have long pushed back against universalist ideas of order and routine. What looks like chaos to one person might be functional to another. What feels soothing for one body may feel oppressive to someone else. Order is not neutral. It is contextual. It is lived.

So I don’t aim for a Pinterest-worthy workspace. I aim for responsiveness. I want a space that listens to the version of me that shows up today. Some days, that version needs color and accessibility. Other days, it needs blank space. Sometimes it needs to dump everything out on the floor and start again. Not because I failed to plan, but because I’m trying to hear what my system is saying now.

Moving the Yarn Is Sometimes the Practice

I’ve come to see these moments not as a detour from creativity, but as part of it. The hand that pulls out the basket is the same hand that will stitch. The mind that reorganizes the supplies is the mind that makes meaning. The nervous system that needs calm is the same one that will find flow.

So if I move the yarn again tomorrow, it won’t be because I’m avoiding the work. It will be because I’m making room for it. In my hands. In my breath. In my body.

And when the yarn finally settles, so will I.

For a while anyway.

If you read this far, perhaps you liked the work. The work takes work. Support it if you can.

You Might Also Like to Read:

The Mess Is Not a Moral Failing

I Can’t Create Here: The Invisible Barriers of Space

The Problem Isn’t Procrastination, It’s Protection

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