I thought I was pretty decent at crochet. I'd made scarves, dishcloths, even a few small blankets. So when I decided to try amigurumi - those adorable little crocheted animals - I figured it would be straightforward enough. Just stitches organized a different way, right?

Three hours later, I was holding what looked like a deflated beige blob with an uneven beak and hole-y crochet stitches. It was supposed to be a plump hen. It looked like a stuffed dishcloth..

But here's the thing about disasters - sometimes they teach you exactly what you need to know.

The Overconfidence

I picked an "easy" pattern from Ravelry. A simple hen, it said. Perfect for beginners, it promised. The photo showed this impossibly cute little hen with a perfectly round body and petite orange beak, sitting upright like it was posing for a magazine.

I bought the recommended yarn, the safety eyes, the fiberfill stuffing. I was going to make a whole nursery full of these little creatures. Maybe I'd even sell them. How hard could it be?

Famous last words.

The Reality Check

Amigurumi, it turns out, is nothing like flat crochet. Everything happens in the round, which means counting stitches constantly and trying to figure out where one row ends and the next begins. The pattern was full of abbreviations I didn't recognize and techniques I'd never heard of.

"Magic ring." What the hell was a magic ring? I watched several YouTube videos before I could even start the head, and even then, my ring looked more like a magic mess. I struggled to start, continuing to rip out stitches when tension was uneven, when the circle wasn’t closing, or when I broke the yarn tugging to close the ring.

Then came the increases and decreases. In theory, you add stitches to make things bigger and skip stitches to make things smaller. In reality, my hen looked like it had been through some kind of tragic accident. Lumpy in weird places, with holes I couldn't figure out how to fix.

The Stubborn Commitment

Any reasonable person would have stopped after the base of the body. But I'd already bought the yarn, and something in me refused to quit. Maybe it was practice for the bigger things in life that didn't go according to plan. Maybe I just wanted to see how wrong it could go.

So I finished the body. Worse than the base, if that was possible. Then the beak - asymmetrical and crooked despite using the same pattern. The beak that was supposed to be a perfect triangle but looked more like a sad orange comma.

When I got to the red comb, I'd already given up on perfection. I just wanted to finish the thing and see what kind of creature I'd created.

The Moment of Truth

When I stuffed it and sewed it together, I stepped back to assess my work. It was... not a hen. It wasn't really anything identifiable. The hen tilted to one side like it was permanently confused. The beak protruded in an unnatural way.

But my daughter, who was five at the time, walked into the room and immediately grabbed it. "Mama, you made a friend!" she said, hugging it tight.

What I Learned From Failure

That wonky not-quite hen taught me more about making things than any successful project ever had. It showed me that my hands could create something that didn't exist before, even if it didn't look anything like what I'd planned.

It taught me that "perfect" isn't the only kind of beautiful. That sometimes the mistakes become the character. That five-year-olds don't care if your stitches are even - they just care that you made something with love.

Most importantly, it taught me that finishing something badly is better than not finishing it at all.

The Plot Twist

I kept making amigurumi after that. Not because I got dramatically better overnight, but because I learned to adjust my expectations. I stopped comparing my beginner attempts to the Instagram photos. I started seeing each wonky creation as part of my learning process instead of evidence of my failure.

That first disaster hen still sits on my daughter's shelf. It's her favorite of all the animals I've made. "This one has personality," she tells people who ask about it.

She's right. It does.

Why I'm Telling You This

Because if you're thinking about trying something new - amigurumi, jewelry making, painting, writing, anything - you need to know that your first attempt will probably be terrible. And that's not just okay, it's necessary.

The disaster phase isn't something to get through as quickly as possible. It's where you learn what the materials feel like, how your hands want to move, what your brain needs to understand to make sense of the process.

Your first amigurumi will probably look like mine did - confused and slightly tragic. Your first hand-stamped bracelet might have wobbly letters. Your first blog post might ramble in circles.

Make them anyway. Finish them anyway. Let them be bad anyway.

Because the only way to get to your second attempt is through your first disaster. And sometimes, if you're really lucky, the disasters turn out to be the things you're most proud of.

The Permission I'm Giving You

Start the thing you're scared to try. Pick the pattern that looks too hard. Buy the supplies before you're sure you can use them properly.

Expect to fail spectacularly. Plan for it. Embrace it.

Because on the other side of that disaster is the version of you who knows how to make things with your hands. Who understands that creating something is always better than creating nothing, even when it's messy and imperfect and nothing like what you planned.

Your wonky not-quite hen is waiting for you. Go make it.

What's the "wonky not-quite hen" project you've been putting off? Or what was your first spectacular creative failure? I'd love to hear about it - because we all need reminders that terrible first attempts are just the beginning of the story.

-A

My First Amigurumi Disaster (And Why I Kept Going Anyway)