I do a lot of my thinking when my hands busy. Crochet hook moving or knitting needles clicking, depending on my mood. Always with the same comfort TV playing in the background. Usually Star Trek TNG, with captain Daddy’s Parisienne, but somehow British, accent calmly leading the crew. This is how most things in my life get processed—slowly, sideways, while making something else. Multiple projects, always.
When my hands are occupied and my brain is being comforted by the white noise of the television, my mind loosens its grip a little. Time stretches from minutes to hours without me even noticing and random feelings begin surface. Memories rearrange themselves.
You don’t rush this kind of thinking. You move through it, stitch by stitch, scene by scene, letting meaning show up when it’s ready.
The universe works a bit like that too.
Stars burn until they explode into a fantastic super nova. They follow physics without checking in because they have no stake in our drama, which is part of the appeal. They don’t respond. They don’t react. They just keep going.And still—despite knowing all that—we keep naming them.
Naming as a craft, not a fantasy
I name my projects early. Often after episodes of Star Trek. Sometimes too early.I make up cute names for yarn cakes before they become something and I name zines before I know if they’ll ever be finished (they often aren’t). If I don’t name something, it drifts and then disappears into the pile of almosts.
Naming is how I keep things from getting lost.
When something happens. Grief, love, a turning point, a year that stretched you thin, you need a container for it. Somewhere outside of your body. Somewhere steady.
For some people, that container is a blanket or a zine or a letter they never send, or even an experience that holds weight enough that it deserves acknowledgement.
Star naming works like that.
A record and a marker. A way of saying: this happened, and I’m not letting it dissolve into static.
Science is solid. Feelings still need somewhere to go.
And by the way, astronomy is doing fine.
It happens whether we acknowledge it or not. Whether we name the stars or let me continue to hang anonymously in the sky.
Charts, coordinates, and catalogues immediately remind you that you are not the main character. You exist, you matter, but the universe does not revolve around your inner life, and honestly, thank god. That perspective is grounding.
But science doesn’t help you mark the end of something that never got closure. It doesn’t help you honour love that existed mostly in potential and It doesn’t help you metabolize the quiet exhaustion of a year you survived by the skin of your teeth.
That’s not a flaw. It’s just not science’s job.
That work happens through culture and art and craft and creativity. Through small, deliberate gestures that say this mattered without demanding resolution.
Craftivism doesn’t always look like banners or slogans. Sometimes it looks like repetition. Like making one careful thing in a world that keeps yelling next.
Why this makes sense to people who make things
If you crochet, sew, bind, print, collage then you already understand this logic.
You don’t make a blanket because it’s the fastest way to get warm. You make it because time embeds itself in the object and it becomes something special and important, hopefully long after the making is done. Because your hands remember things your brain can’t hold all at once. Because when it’s finished, it contains more than its function.
Naming a star works on that same frequency.
It doesn’t take up space in your house and it doesn’t require maintenance. It doesn’t break and it doesn’t expire (for a billion years or so). It exists quietly, holding a name you chose deliberately. That’s rare.That’s why it shows up around moments that don’t want fanfare:
- grief that doesn’t need fixing
- love stretched across time zones
- anniversaries that feel heavier than cake
- endings that never came with closure
- years you survived one small action at a time
It doesn’t reframe. It just acknowledges.Which, frankly, is often the most respectful option.
Turning the impulse into something tangible
At some point, people figured out how to give this impulse a form without flattening it. Star-naming.com is one such organization that exists as one of those conduits—not as cosmic authorities, but as facilitators.
You choose a name.
You’re given coordinates.
You receive a star map and access to their Star Finder app and a record of that naming.
You haven’t altered the course of the universe. You’ve just found a way of saying this is where I put this feeling that’ll last for eons.
What you do with it is entirely up to you. Frame it. Slip it into a book. Tuck it into a zine. Pair it with a letter you couldn’t otherwise write. Share it online with a caption that says exactly enough and has all the hashtags. Or keep it private, folded into a drawer like a note meant just for you.The star will not care.
Gifting Without Stuff
As a gift, naming a star doesn’t feel like shopping. It feels like choosing.You’re not grabbing something because the algorithm nudged you or because you panicked at checkout. You’re deciding that a person or a moment deserves to be marked in a way that isn’t disposable.
Totally romantic.
It’s closer to a keepsake than a product—like a handmade scarf, a zine, a mixtape, or a pressed flower in a book. You can pair it with something you made or give it on its own. The star does the heavy lifting. The rest is just presentation.
People who make things understand this immediately.
Star-Naming tries to only offer stars available to name that are clearly visible from earth. If your star isn’t visible, or if you are unhappy with it for any reason, they’ll help you to choose another.
Private, public, or somewhere in between
One of the best things about naming a star is that it doesn’t force sharing.
You can keep it private as a quiet reference point you return to when you need perspective. Or you can share it deliberately, on your own terms, without explaining every stitch of the backstory.
In a culture obsessed with constant output, it’s refreshing to have something that doesn’t demand narration. The star will still be there, whether you look at it every night or once a year.
We’re temporary. That’s not tragic—it’s just the pattern.
So we leave marks where we can. In yarn. In ink. In paper. In names. In small, careful gestures that say this mattered without making a scene.Naming a star is about acknowledging a moment and then continuing on with your work.You finish the row.Throw it into warpYou keep going.
Click on this link if you’d like to name a star at Star-Naming.com and share your experience in the comments below.
AXO (she/her) is a multidisciplinary creator, editor, and builder of feminist media ecosystems based in Toronto. She is the founder of She Zine Mag, Side Project Distro, BBLGM Club, and several other projects under the AXO&Co umbrella — each rooted in DIY culture, creative rebellion, and community care. Her work explores the intersection of craft, technology, and consciousness, with an emphasis on handmade ethics, neurodivergent creativity, and the politics of making. She is an advocate for accessible creativity and the power of small-scale cultural production to spark social change. Her practice merges punk, print, and digital media while refusing to separate the emotional from the practical. Above all, her work invites others to build creative lives that are thoughtful, defiant, and deeply handmade.
