Words by Mary Ridge // Photo by Alina Perekatenkova
I turned nineteen last month, and instead of celebrating with a party, I spent the evening curled up on my bed with a skein of wool, a pair of needles, and a podcast about medieval history.
I call myself a 19-year-old nana. Not because I have grey hair or a penchant for early bird specials (though I do love dinner before 6pm) but because my hobbies and priorities skew delightfully, unapologetically old. I find immense satisfaction in the art of letter writing (I have multiple penpals), my favourite go to snack is scones and my knitting is getting so good I’m getting requests for patterns from my grandma. My friends live for spontaneity, loud music, and the thrill of last-minute weekend trips. And that’s wonderful. It’s just not me.
Although my friends love and accept me for who I am, they simply don’t understand my enjoyment of these hobbies. They’re always telling me I need to loosen up and ‘have fun’. But here’s the thing: I am having fun. My joy may be quieter, slower, and, some would argue, less Instagram-worthy. But it’s mine.
Being a nana at nineteen isn’t about rejecting youthful experiences, it’s about curating my own. I still go out for brunches, see movies, and attend concerts, though I leave before the confetti falls. But my favorite nights are the ones where the world shrinks to the size of my bedroom, where the loudest sound is my cat kneading my blanket and the only person I’m trying to impress is myself from last week and last knitting project.
There’s also something comforting about the predictability of “old lady” hobbies. I know that if I pick up my needles at 9 pm, by 11:30 pm I’ll have something tangible to show for it. I know, I know, we don’t need to be productive to have fun, but I get such immense pleasure in seeing art appear before my eyes as my needles click, that I can’t imagine swapping my nights for loud music and sticky floors. Absolutely no shame in what my friends enjoy, I can see the joy radiating from their faces when they send me late night snaps, and I love that for them. Just not for me.
Occassionally, my parents worry that I am missing out, that I am wasting my youth, curled up in my bedroom, enjoying the peace. But I disagree. I’ve discovered a different kind of richness, one measured in evenings of quiet creativity, soft blankets, and a personal sense of peace that no nightclub bass can replicate. My friends’ stories from the dance floor are as exciting to me as the clink of my needles, and I relish swapping tales of chaos for tales of cosiness.
So, yes, I’m a nana. But I’m a nineteen-year-old nana who knows that happiness doesn’t come in one size, or one age. It comes in whatever shape, pace, and colour you choose. And if that happens to be a wool scarf, knitted in bed, while the world raves on without you? Well, that’s just fine by me.
