☔️ April 2026 (Full Letter)

I’ve found the older I get, the more I’m unknowingly drawn to hobbies that ask of me to work on my natural weak-points: gardening asks me to constantly be patient and to trust the process; running asks me what’s good enough to be proud of myself and what my definition of success is when swag and comparing stats aren’t available (or helpful); knitting asks me to relax, or my work will be bulletproof from how tight my yarn tension is.

Right now, I’m finding that pottery is asking me to discern balance: knowing when to keep working the form or to start over; whether to stop trimming or to fix that one last pesky detail (and risk ruining it entirely with one wrong move); how fast or slow to move my hands or the wheel; how much water to use when throwing; how much or how little glaze to use; creative work/life balance; following marketing and business strategies that I know work well in today’s digital age, or staying true to my need for privacy and being offline at the expense of reach; follow how it’s always been done, or forge my own way even if it’s lonely and complicated; making what I think others want or making what I want to make; and — what I’m currently wrestling with most — determining whether I truly need to love every piece I offer from the studio, or trust that the right person will find and love a wonky piece I made, even if it’s not how I envisioned. (Not to mention the fact that pottery also asks the potter to find *literal* balance (i.e. center) when a mass of clay is throwing its weight around and working with centrifugal force to fling itself off the wheel-head and break your heart.)

In March and most of April, I was working on an idealized production schedule to pump out as many of my ideas as I could; but I was continually humbled by my beginner skills, tired parenting days, and the inherent luck that’s needed in throwing pottery. I found myself constantly “behind” my schedule, flustered, and resentful of my starting point, even though no one else would know where I was “supposed” to be. Even as of this writing, I still haven’t officially launched my business, so one would think I’d feel no perceived demand right now, but that’s not the case; I am far too hard on myself (aren’t we all?), and asked way too much of myself rather than acknowledging and meeting my skillset where I currently am.

In the last week I went from planning to produce three pieces a day to aiming for three to five a week. I’ve found this rhythm much more sustainable for me, and naturally, the pieces I’m walking away with feel more like me, feel better in quality, and surprisingly I’m making more at a time, even getting “ahead of schedule,” but never taking that for granted.

I wish I could say that I have this business thing all figured out and that I’m going to be 100% consistent because my “brand” is set in stone, but that would be disingenuous, unreasonable, and unfair to both you and to me. I’m human. I’m admittedly a beginner. I’m solo. I’m a first-time business owner. I’m still discovering my style, voice, and brand. All I can say with certainty is this is me right now, balancing somewhere between pride and insecurity while learning to accept myself as a beginner in so many capacities. I hope you’ll come along with me for the ride for the highs and lows!

I invite you to ask yourself where in your life you consider yourself a beginner, novice, dabbler, experimenter, etc.; and how you can be kind and supportive to yourself while you learn? Do you need to change expectations of yourself or your standards? Do you need a change in schedule or routine? Do you have questions for someone more experienced in your area of focus? (Remember, other beginners can offer great insights too! Let’s learn from each other!) Do you need to ask for and/or accept help? Whatever it is you’re working on, I wish you patience with yourself and hope you make mistakes, because that means you’re trying and learning!