I am ever learning. There is no such thing as genius. There is no such thing as mastery. These are the things I’ve started to repeat to myself—reminders I cling to in the moments I feel small or unsure. Because the truth is, I am not some prodigy. I am not gifted in the traditional sense. I am nothing but passion with a pen, with my hands, with my body in motion. I am what I make of myself—and that comes with learning, constant and unrelenting.

I want to do it all. I believe I can, and I will try my best to do so. But that desire comes with a caveat: the willingness to fail. And I haven’t quite mastered that part yet. The sting of failure still cuts deeper than I’d like to admit. But I’m trying. Because I know I have much to learn—and I’m begging for it, searching for it around every corner. I want to soak in knowledge like a sponge in glaze.

This is why I love ceramics. Clay doesn’t let you fake it. You can never know everything about it; it simply won’t allow it. There’s too much—too many variables, too many secrets. Chemistry, artistry, alchemy, and every other “-y” I could throw in the mix. It’s a humbling craft, a lifelong challenge, a conversation that never ends. And maybe that’s what keeps pulling me back: the impossibility of total understanding.

In clay, I see a mirror of myself: imperfect, evolving, sometimes cracking under pressure—but always reaching, always forming. I may never master it. But I’ll always be learning. And maybe that’s the point.