When I first touched clay in 2019, I didn’t know it would change the way I saw myself. My very first piece — a blue slab-rolled mug with moon phases — came out of the kiln perfectly imperfect. It was more than just a mug; it was a quiet reminder that transformation takes time, heat, and a lot of patience.

Pottery began as a creative experiment, but somewhere between the spinning wheel and the slow rhythm of glaze strokes, it became my therapy. Living with chronic health issues for years had left me anxious and often disconnected from my body. I was constantly fighting — my own thoughts, fears, and pain. But clay asked for something different. It didn’t want control; it wanted presence.

I have ADHD, and my mind rarely rests — there’s always a running monologue, an internal hum that never stops. Yet, something magical happens when I step into my studio. The noise fades. My hands take over. My breath slows down. The clay becomes my anchor. In those moments, I am not trying to fix anything — I’m just being.

Every time I center a lump of clay, I feel like I’m centering myself too. Some days it takes longer; some days I can’t quite get it right — and that’s okay. Pottery has taught me that calm doesn’t mean stillness; it means acceptance.

My favorite part of the process is glazing. It’s where I let go of rules and flow with intuition — combining colors, experimenting with textures, and allowing surprises to unfold. The firing that follows is equally humbling. Even when everything looks perfect before the kiln, you never truly know how it’ll turn out until you open that lid. There’s a quiet thrill in that uncertainty — a reminder that not everything needs to be controlled to be beautiful.

For me, pottery is more than an art form; it’s a way of returning home — to my body, my breath, my peace. Each piece carries a story of healing, of finding balance in chaos, of listening rather than fixing.

If there’s one message I’ve learned through this journey, it’s what Elizabeth Gilbert beautifully said in Big Magic: live a life driven more by curiosity than by fear. To me, that means showing up like a cat — curious, playful, unafraid to explore. Pottery has become that exploration for me — a gentle way to stay curious about my own evolution, one piece at a time.

Because somewhere between the turning wheel and the quiet kiln, I’ve found my center. And it feels a lot like peace.