The Curious Break

When someone suggests that you try pottery, you don’t always expect it to be a 24-year-old with a balanced mix of laid-back energy and wisdom beyond her years. My mentor’s daughter—kind, cool, and effortlessly adored by my twins—nudged me toward the pottery wheel. It couldn’t have been a random idea. It was her gentle way of suggesting that, maybe, I could use something to get me out of my head and into my hands. Something less “achievement unlocked” and a little more “hey, look what I made!”

Pottery felt like a seemingly perfect escape from my type-A approach: no deadlines, no spreadsheets, no need to be the best. Just me, a wheel, a lump of clay, and the very real possibility that I might end up with something only a mother could love. There’s a rhythm to pottery that I found immediately appealing—spinning, molding, a little coaxing, a lot of mess. It’s imperfect by nature. Honestly, I needed a reminder that it’s okay to make something shitty.

The idea of imperfection was liberating in theory. But when I sat down at the wheel for the first time, it was predictably, a mess. I spent an outrageous amount of time just trying to get my piece of clay centered. As my teacher noted, you won’t get very far if you’re not centered. Ah yes, when messages are a bit deeper than they appear.

After some not-too gentle molding and admittedly, some extra help from my teacher, I was centered and off to the races. I poked. I prodded. I used way more arm strength than I was anticipating. And in the end, I got something that looked like it had been designed by my enthusiastic six-year-olds with no regard for physics. I caught myself wanting to fix it, to make it symmetrical, to somehow win at pottery (which by the way isn’t a thing, but tell that to my perfectionist Virgo brain). But eventually, I let go. I allowed the clay to be weird, let myself to be imperfect, and—shockingly—had fun. My hands were covered in mud, I made a bowl that could barely hold a spoonful of cereal, and I was fully present for the first time in a long time.

Pottery taught me that being bad at something can be wonderful. Don’t get me wrong, my inner control freak was still screaming. But there is freedom in being a beginner and having no expectations, in showing up with zero skills and realizing that’s exactly the point. For years, I’ve lived with a checklist: be competent, be reliable, be impressive. But this time, I was just… there, with a misshapen lump that made my pottery teacher politely nod and move on. And it was liberating… like throwing years of to-do lists right into the kiln. Beginner energy is a very real thing, and I’m into it.

The experience made me think about how much of my life has become too outcome-driven. Pottery is the antithesis of that—an invitation to enjoy the mess, laugh at mishaps, and see the beauty in the awkward journey. It’s a spot on metaphor for the year I’ve chosen: trying, exploring, making strange and beautiful things out of clay and time, without worrying about external recognition or validation.

If there’s one lesson I’m taking from pottery, it’s that life is more enjoyable when you’re not constantly trying to win at it. So, if you’re feeling overwhelmed, maybe it’s time to grab some clay, make something weird, and just enjoy the ride. It’s way more fun than being perfect. And who knows—you might just find that getting your hands (and pants, and shoes, and face) dirty is exactly what you needed.