light & gather

At ceramic pop-ups and studio tables, there’s a familiar habit I have: I like to run my fingers along the inside of displayed pieces. Handbuilt or thrown on the wheel, they each have a distinct feel. With handmade ceramic pieces, the texture of the craftsmanship can vary by method. But if the piece was made by throwing clay on the wheel, there is always a similar sensation.

The base holds the weight of the piece, and as you move up the walls, they begin to thin. This process often leaves behind traces—what I call ribs—that can be smoothed out on the outside but not always completely on the inside. That’s how you can tell a piece is handmade and not manufactured. The thinner walls and the absence of ribs matter greatly to the craft, but feeling them has always been a source of comfort for me.

Much like the bottom of a ceramic piece, the emotional toll of the last month has been heavy. The cost of emotional labor has become harder to ignore. Conflicts stretch on, thinning connections that were once held with more care—not because they are complex, but because communication is avoided, pride intervenes, and responsibility diffuses.

Stability sometimes seems to come at the cost of justifying a sad truth: some things are more out of our control than we would like to admit. You can’t always step in, and continuous absorption is not sustainable.

Prolonged exposure to unnecessary weight can leave you feeling thin and burnt out. What’s often missing in these systems is quiet agency—the freedom to move slowly, to work deliberately, to choose small, tangible acts that counterbalance a world inclined toward vapid excess.

To hold something tangible and real—something where you can feel the traces left by another person’s hands—is grounding. That effort to find meaning in touch, in form, in process, is what has brought me back to my practice.

I have been more intentional about what I consume, who I interact with, and how I think about myself and the world I want to create—for myself and for my child.

So I went back to making ceramics. It’s a small gesture toward an overall goal (rehydrating clay I let dry out during my pregnancy), but it is a start. I’ve been revisiting my Pinterest boards for inspiration and compiling a list of pieces that excite me. Unexpectedly, the world doesn’t feel so small anymore, nor does it feel as doom-filled.

I am excited. Still in an anxious, mourning phase—but inspired.