I’m not a true pattern maker when it comes to knitting, but I have been knitting for most of my life. So I can definitely get my hands around the different knitting techniques and knit without a pattern when I want to, and these vests were super easy to whip up. Especially knitting them with such a chunky yarn!

I used Crazy Sexy Wool from Wool and The Gang in Wild Mushroom for the body of the vest, and then Lipstick Red for the red love heart, and Pink Lemonade and Ivory White for the smaller hearts. This wool is AMAZING for beginners, and it really is so warm and snuggly for projects like this. If you are confident in knitting, you could easily knit this within a few hours as the chunky wool builds the pattern quite quickly.

I didn’t initially intend on making a pattern, but so many people asked for it.. So because I was knitting with yarn that I had frogged (reused) from another project, Im not sure how many balls I used exactly, but I would say between 2-3 and I knit the vests in the round using 15mm needles.

CHUNKY VEST PATTERN:

This is the size I made for the 1 year old, I added 4 stitches casting on for the second vest, which was for a 2 year old, and then adapted the pattern as I needed. Both vests were knit a little bigger so there was a bit of room for layering, and to grow into.

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I was only a toddler, and this traumatic experience immediately began to shape the processing of how I interacted with my possessions for the rest of my life. I didn’t realise it until years on, when I could feel myself bereft when I would lose something from my childhood.

The trauma was there.. I felt myself anxious at letting go often as I got older. This idea of holding onto things, my things, engraining itself unknowingly within. For fear that one day they would all be taken from me again.

I wonder how this experience created this nature in me, to hold onto. To collect. To save for later. Or as some have referred over the years.. to hoard.

I always felt I was an artist. Growing up, I always spoke about how I wanted to be an artist, and I practiced that way. Through school I excelled in art, photography and design. I volunteered to work on set design for school theatre, entered art competitions and won. My chosen extracurricular activity outside of school from the age of 8 was to do pottery, I was never a sporty child, I loved to dance.. but more than anything I loved to craft objects with my hands.

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A vow that if she were to one day have a daughter, she would name her after her best friend. I was born 8 years later, in the mountains of Vail, Colorado while the snow fell outside.

Lucette is a French name that means "little light" or "illumination". The origins of this name are not my own. Often when I meet French people, they begin with “parles-tu français?” and most of the time, I wish I did. I studied it for a time in High School, but being raised in Australia, there isn’t a standard secondary language, and no one in my home was multilingual, so it never stuck.

Lucette was a name that had been passed down through the family who lost their beloved daughter, their sister. A beautiful French woman that had come to Australia and fallen in love with an Australian man. She was a powerful matriarch, who I was honored to call Grandma.

I think of her so often, and have the fondest memories of the time I spent with her growing up. The way she laughed and spoke, her favorite lipstick and her love for fashion and art. She was remarkably generous and kind.. and like me, she too outlived one of her children.

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When studying English in school, it was never the subject I looked forward to, and I did not excel. Though I always got average grades I didn’t care to further my writing, because it simply didn’t inspire me in the ways tactile classes such as Art, Photography, Wood Work and Metal Work did.

I remember studying ‘Belonging’ in English, and finding it incredibly boring and irrelevant at the time. I’m sure many could relate at the time, I was a high school student, who for the majority of her schooling experience had been heavily bullied and didn’t feel like she fit in.

In the last 2 years, I have had several friends, and followers from Instagram push for me to share on Substack. Anything, everything, whatever feels to be true to me.

I’ve tried, as you can see - I didn’t put in much effort… But I posted a few times.

Initially, the push came from the beautiful Carley De Marco of The Retreat. She interviewed me when I was pregnant for her newspaper and we spoke in depth about the progression of this platform, and how someone like me could really blossom by sharing in this space. I shared a few posts, and then my son died. My world was completely obliterated. I become a ghost of the girl that once was.

When the dark of the night would come, and the world was quiet, living was unbearable. I could not sleep, and I would spend days at a time wondering if I too would die, my body letting out from sleep deprivation, insanity and heartbreak. I hoped for it at times too.

I would spend the night spiralling, my mind pacing between what my reality actually was and what I thought it would be. I assumed that sleepless nights would be filled with a babies cries, and night feeds. Dirty diapers and precious newborn cuddles. But I was so far from that vision. I would spend my nights writing, whatever I mentally spiraled, I would write down. There was some catharsis, and I felt the call to share.

I was processing horrific coroners calls and moving through a yearning and seperation that I do not think can be understood by anyone unless you are a parent that has held their child as they died and then had them taken away abruptly. 12 hours after birthing my son, he was taken away, stored in a fridge and transported 9 hours away to be autopsied. We waited a month for his return, and as you can imagine.. The baby I birthed, was completely different when he returned a month later. The shock of each of these moments still lives in me in some way. Still paralyses me every other day.

Somewhere in the grief, I came here - I shared a few times, and then I disappeared again. I couldn’t quite figure out how to show up here. Who would want to subscribe to the sad girl. Maybe they only want the arty girl, the creative ease to escape to.

I find it hard to direct my energy into sharing about just one thing, because I am not just one thing. My life has journeyed so much more than to hold just a singular focus. But I didn’t know how to do that, how to package that to people.

About a year ago, my partner and I spoke to Carley again (my first interview never went to print, a personal request as so much of it was filled with the hope and joy of mothering a living child) we sat with her for hours over zoom, moving through an interview on Partnership for The Retreat. Again, she nudged gently and lovingly toward Substack.

It felt easier then, I shared for a few months. Even around the time of my Son Dash’s First birthday, I felt myself opening to the possibility of consistency on this platform, and then I miscarried the week after Dash’s birthday. We had been TTC (trying to conceive) for about 6 months, a brutal journey after infant loss. More on that some other time..

I suppose after that I began to lose hope, I circled back inward. We had been homeless since May, we had lost our son, our whole world felt like it was just constantly imploding and I couldn’t fathom sharing. I could barely get out of bed or feed myself. My depression and CPTSD were affecting me in ways I can not even begin to explain. I was truly a shell, and up until that point - the only thing that had been keeping me going was the hope of having another child. It consumed nearly every hour of my everyday. Watching friends and strangers on the internet conceive and birth with ease. Mother their children with joy and love.

While we are still TTC, hoping to bring our rainbow baby into the world, it has been difficult to ponder why my journey to becoming a mother has been so harrowing and others so easy. If you have ever lost a child, or struggled with infertility - it is often easy to immediately wonder “what did I do to deserve this” “how much karma could I possibly have to repay”.

So I questioned often, how much I could share of my truth. Because when I did…. who would want to be friends with me? Who could possibly want to hear such sorrowful and depressing conversations again and again and again and again. That truth often felt affirmed too. Relationships that had once flowed easily and beautifully disappeared. Friends that vowed they would show up often had a better offer, one that didn’t involve such heaviness. Conversations where I opened my hearts deepest wounds were left on read, and I felt more alone than I have ever felt in my life.

I’ve thought often about my loneliness as a Mother. How I presumed my days would be filled with playgroups and Mothers Circles, discussions about teething and potty training and what cute things I could do for their birthday party. Instead, I have spent weeks now wondering how to celebrate my child’s birthday when they are no longer here. Where do I belong in mothering? I think often of those that birthed after me, that have more experience mothering than me.

Sometimes the belonging is felt in the heartache that comes when opening my phone to a message from someone sharing they have just lost their baby. That what I have shared about my own loss has been deeply helpful to get them through their own grief and loss. It’s not something I ever wanted to belong to.. but I do. Grief belongs to me now, and those that haven’t experienced it will often spit out platitudes they do not understand will do nothing for the broken hearted.

Well intentioned words to ‘be patient’ ‘time heals all wounds’ ‘you’re so strong’ cut like a blade as if I had any say to be strong, or have patience when going through an intense physiological response like the one between a mother and child, when the child has died.

If my nearest and dearest were not sticking around in the intimate and devastating corners of my life, then I really didn’t believe that sharing here would benefit me any further. Ignorance is bliss right? If we don’t know about someones hardships, they must be doing A-OK…right? The nudge toward sharing on Substack was still there. Though I don’t think this is what they wanted from me, I do think most of the nudging has been from people suggesting I share my art. The things that I make. The way that I live.

When I started writing this post, I really didn’t know where it was going. I didn’t really think about it, other than to say, I don’t think I’m much of a writer. Though the organic way in which I express myself, seems to have no problem spilling out onto this page. These words that Belong to me. When so much is written by AI nowadays - I hope these ramblings of mine will be refreshing to those who care to read them.

Last night, I sat with my women’s circle and a few of the women suggested I share here again. So I figured, what better time than the present.

The tragedies of my life have stopped wounding me so deeply. We are no longer homeless. I have found stability is steadily increasing, and my nervous system is gently beginning to regulate more and more often. So perhaps I will develop a greater consistency in sharing here.

I know there is much I can offer. I see it reflected in the little that I share on Instagram about being a bereaved parent. I also see how much yearning there is for people to learn ancient arts. Something which has come to my hands, heart and mind seamlessly my entire life. It is what has kept me going through everyday of deep pain, I Belong to art and creation and it has undoubtedly carried me through.

If you choose to subscribe and stick around, please know you will not only be supporting an artist, but also a mother who desires to one day share a different story. One where she can create a beautiful future for her future living children.

I wonder if they treat mothers whose babies died due to negligence in hospitals the same - I highly doubt it.

Regardless of where a mother chooses to birth her baby, the death of a baby is ALWAYS a tragedy. I think we can all agree on that front. Perhaps that’s why so many keyboard warriors are taking to the front line of comment sections to share their threats and defend their beliefs that mothers who lose a child at home ‘should never have been parents’ shaming others, as if they don’t already feel enough pain. As if death doesn’t come for us all one day.

Unfortunately, the death of babies during childbirth is not uncommon, and sadly neither is the death of mothers - though statistically speaking, the death of mothers is lower. Some babies are born sleeping, others are born with fatalities, some develop infections that cannot be treated, some struggle to take an independent breath and sometimes even after examination, they are unable to declare the cause of death.

There are also many babies who pass because of negligence, most often than not, these cases are seen inside the hospital system. Cases that I have heard of plenty of times since losing my own baby after birth. Cases where parents of loss have been awarded huge financial payouts because of medical malpractice - as if any amount of money could ever save a broken heart and a lifetime of grieving your child’s early death.

Yet I don’t ever see the same fire for those that lose babies in the hospital, as I do for the families who are also seeking to have their ideal birth, and choose to do this at home. Those women, like myself are immediately criminalised. Treated with such disdain and suspicion and ultimately, they become further traumatised by the system they were trying to protect themselves from in the first place.

I’ll never forget how it felt to be stripped of my baby 12 hours after he was born, 4 hours after he had passed. I was never given the option to spend a night or two with him. Those 4 hours we were ‘allowed’ with him after he left his body, we were monitored closely by 2 police officers in a small room and they refused to remove any of the medical equipment from his tiny body for us to spend time with him, as it was deemed evidence. Even after a forensics photographer had come and taken their photos.

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I was purely trying to survive then. To wake up each day in what should have been the sweetest days of our lives, to the unending nightmare of remembering my child had died. That I had watched life leave him as he lay in my arms. That at 4 days postpartum, I was told about my son’s autopsy process in graphic detail, feeling every single biological protective instinct to stop his body being mutilated but without a choice to stop it. That I had been forced to go to the police station 5 days postpartum to make a statement, where I sat in an office chair for 6 hours, recounting every detail of what had taken place.

That instead of breastfeeding, and learning the rhythms of life with a newborn, I was planning a funeral for my baby. That at 31 days postpartum I watched as his body was placed into a furnace, and flames engulfed his little body until he was made into ash.

The long praised ‘golden month’, those blessed first 40 days, were a trip through hell, and on the other side I’ve been born through the thorns of child loss, scored and forever changed. The making of me. A mother without a living child. A woman I don’t know well.

I now feel like the baby, as I attempt to find strength to be in society. As I try to meet friends who are deeply in the bliss of their newborn bubble. Remembering the horrors of what my newborn bubble entailed. How deeply I wished for my nights to be sleep deprived from night feeds instead of night terrors. Hormone drops and grief cutting me into pieces alongside him cold and alone somewhere in a coroners department.

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We decided we would go and sprinkle some of Dash’s ashes into the lake, and as we arrived a brief hailstorm fell from the skies and paused us on our arrival. We sat, readying to meet this moment, and as we reached into his urn a small rainbow appeared in the sky above us.

I was enwrapped by all these signs, these little messages from Dash, and I could feel another energy present. When I really went inward I realised I had been feeling it a few days by then. This sensation in my womb, that at first I wondered if it was the resonance of birth imprinted on my womb this time last year. The deep ache that followed as my son left my body, and then left his body.

I sat with it more, delicately holding the balance between grieving my little boy, and the spark that I quickly realised was a new life growing in my belly. And so I placed a hand over my womb and I whispered ‘whoever is in there, please know I love you, you are safe, you are ok, and I am going to be sad today, but you are safe’

The shift was apparent, I could feel my body had softened and there was life growing again. So I prepared myself the next morning to take a test and pray. I wake early most mornings around 5am. It was pitch black and I went to the toilet, 3 mins passed and there it was - 2 lines. Tom was still asleep, and I was bewildered.

We had been TTC for over 7 months, and we had navigated a very emotional preconception journey after the loss of Dash and honestly - every month has been brutal since. I almost didn’t believe the 2 lines. It was faint, but it was a line.

Of course I quickly ran out to wake up Tom with excitement, and then as soon as I said it aloud I was struck with the knowing that this baby might not make it. I could see it in Tom’s face too. The knowing that there is no ‘safe zone’ in pregnancy and birth, and that sometimes babies die and we can’t do anything to stop it.

I cannot fully express in words, the gift that this felt like. The synchronicity of finding out I was pregnant the day after Dash’s birthday. That there was another baby with us, that when I did the maths again would hopefully be joining us in May 2026. The calm and peace that washed over me, that was met by many other waves of anxiety and fear.

It sparked a joy in my I have not felt in over a year. I have heard from many other women who have lost babies that having another living child healed parts of them that they thought would be lost forever.

There was a knowing that although it could never fully heal the hole in my heart where Dash is missing, that birthing again and being able to mother a live child, would bring deep healing to our family.

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Before I could step into any space of truth, I thought it would be best to make sure others felt okay knowing that if they read any further, that they would read my child had died. When I look back, I was doing a lot to protect others feelings. I was only a few weeks postpartum and into the loss of my baby, and I was deeply concerned about upsetting others. I was thinking about how they would react to my loss and trying to care take their feelings, to cushion them if you will, an attempt to somehow soften our tragedy.

Tom read the post and quickly said there was no need to put a trigger warning at the start of announcing the birth and death of our baby. This wasn’t about others, this moment was about us. It was about Dash.

I wonder where this started - warning people about death, as if it is not a daily part of life, and something that everyone experiences first hand, wether young or old.

I remember a friend telling me she wanted to see photos of Dash, then gasp down the phone ‘Wait… Is he dead in this!?’ Suddenly, I could feel this shame and fear that it was inappropriate to share photos of the most beautiful little boy I had ever seen with people. Fear that his image would make people squirm instead of gaze with awe as most people do with newborns.

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I’m also pretty obsessed with black tahini in a hot chocolate, SO YUM. This recipe, I knew it was one to be cherished and as expected, it has become a staple for me and a favorite among friends and family. It’s a great gluten free option too which we have been navigating at home as my partner has a slight sensitivity.. Almost have to hide this from him so he doesn’t eat it all!

Black sesame is commonly used in Ayurveda for its warming, calming and nourishing constitution. It also has amazing properties as a galactagogue (breast milk enhancing for mamas) and is a potent ally for pregnancy and postpartum. This cake is definitely one I will be having on repeat in my postpartum.

You will need:

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I had been dreaming up a long cardigan for quite some time, something floaty and not too heavy, that could be worn comfortably during those in between seasons, or layered with a jacket. An essential for the warmer winter days that we get here in the Northern Rivers of Australia. 

So much of my wardrobe is filled with beautiful linens and wools, a lot of which I’ve designed or created myself over the years and so I knew exactly what I wanted this piece to look like and wasn’t finding the right pattern for it.. initially when I knit this I had knit it much too small for what I wanted so I unravelled and began again. 

Having my hand back in textiles whilst I’m pregnant has felt somewhat poetic. Working within the fibre arts it and weaving stories as my belly grows beneath the pieces I am creating. I feel more feminine than ever, and have felt so drawn to dusty pinks and earthy purples. That’s how I knew the minute I saw this divine Artichoke Purple yarn that it was exactly what I had been envisioning.

So many of you requested this pattern.. and although I’ve been knitting for many years, I’ve never written a pattern up so please let me know how you go with it if you make it. 

I would say this is a one size piece, I typically wear a standard size 8 AU, and am 5ft 9” to give you an idea of the sizing. If you feel confident and want to adjust the sizing to be smaller, I say go for it! Easiest thing to do would be to decrease the amount of rows you do for the front panels and the back if you are only worried about the length

MATERIALS

• 9 balls of Knitting for Olive Soft Silk Mohair, (I held 3 strands together as I knit, for a thicker yarn) 225m, 25g per ball 70% mohair, 30% silk. You could opt for a thicker mohair from a different company, but this is what I used

• Size US 19 (15 mm) circular knitting needles, 20” (50 cm) in length

TECHNIQUES & ABBREVIATIONS

sts: stitches K: Knit P: Purl

K2TOG: Knit two stitches together

BACK

Cast on 55 sts

Row 1: Knit all sts

Row 2: Purl all sts

Rows 3 - 88: Repeat the last two rows (stockinette stitch)

Do NOT cast off.

FRONT RIGHT

Continue knitting with the first 27 sts only. The remaining 28 sts can stay on the cord of the needles or be placed on a separate stitch holder.

Row 89: K27

Row 90: P27

Rows 91- 176: Repeat the last two rows (stockinette stitch)

Cast off.

FRONT LEFT

Reattach your working yarn and continue working with the 28 sts on hold. Cast off the first stitch (this is for the back center neck). Proceed working with the remaining 27 sts.

Row 89: K27

Row 90: P27

Rows 91- 176: Repeat the last two rows (stockinette stitch)

Cast off.

SLEEVES

Starting from the bottom of the armhole and working clockwise, pick up 38 sts (19 sts from the front panel and 19 sts from the back panel). Pick up every other row. Join to work in the round.

Rounds 1 – 26: Knit all sts (stockinette stitch)

Round 27: * K2TOG; repeat from * to the last 2 sts, K2 (18 sts decreased, 20 sts remain)

All sizes resume:

Rounds 28 - 30: * K1, P1; repeat from * to the end of round (1 x 1 ribbing)

Cast off.

Repeat for the second sleeve.

Seam sides of the cardigan together leaving your desired split length (mine comes to midway up my thigh) and secure all ends.

Would love to see your photos if you do end up creating this one!

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