2024 was the hardest year of my life.

On June 8 of this year, my life took an unexpected turn when I broke my leg in a freak accident on an airplane, just as I was setting off on what was supposed to be an unforgettable month-long adventure through Spain and Morocco. Instead, I found myself stranded in Switzerland, navigating two surgeries, months of immobility, and the humbling challenge of learning to walk again. That injury wasn’t just a physical setback—it shook the foundations of my independence and identity. But through the pain and frustration, I found an unlikely lifeline in pottery, a practice that became my sanctuary, my therapy, and my connection to the community that carried me through.

In the aftermath of breaking my leg, I spent five full months immersed in surgeries, immobility, and painful rehabilitation. I didn’t just lose my ability to walk; I lost so many of the things that defined my independence and identity. But through it all, pottery became my lifeline, grounding me physically and emotionally in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.

When I first started walking again, it wasn’t graceful or easy. Every step was accompanied by pain, uncertainty, and a grim determination to keep going. But while my body struggled, my heart kept finding refuge in clay. Early on, when I couldn’t even drive myself to the studio, my students stepped up in ways I never expected. For four months, they organized rides to and from my pottery class, ensuring I could still be there, even when I was at my most vulnerable.

Teaching while in recovery was humbling and healing at the same time. I couldn’t physically demonstrate much, but being surrounded by the chatter and focus of my students reminded me that creativity isn’t about perfection; it’s about connection. They didn’t treat me like I was broken; they treated me like their teacher. And they supported me. They carried supplies around the room for me while I hobbled around and guided them through their projects to the best of my ability. Every class, every smile, every shared moment in that space felt like a gift. It was a reminder that sometimes we heal best when we let others carry a bit of the burden for us.

At home, the healing continued in a different way. My living room became an impromptu studio one evening, when a few friends came over with clay in hand. We spent hours creating small sculptures of Moo Deng, a baby hippopotamus in Thailand who went internationally viral on social media, and laughed at our own attempts to capture her character. It wasn’t about skill or perfection, it was about the joy of creating together. Those moments were medicine. They brought laughter and connection back into a life that had felt so focused on pain and recovery. The Moo Deng sculptures have become a reminder of resilience, whimsy, and the simple power of being with people who care about you.

Even beyond the studio and those crafting gatherings, pottery itself became my sanctuary. Clay demands presence. You can’t rush it; you can’t force it to be something it’s not. It teaches patience and acceptance, two things I needed desperately in this journey. On days when my leg felt like it would never stop hurting or when I was overwhelmed by the limitations of my body, I’d sit with clay. Sometimes, I couldn’t manage the wheel, so I’d hand-build instead, rolling coils, smoothing textures, or just letting my hands work through the motions. The tactile nature of it kept me grounded, pulling me out of spiraling thoughts and anchoring me to the present moment.

The pieces I’ve made since my injury carry those stories. One of my favorites is the porcelain vase I’ve started, inspired by my leg, its fragility, its scars, its strength. It’s a deeply personal piece, a blend of wheel-thrown and hand-built elements that reflects my own physical and emotional journey. As I shape the clay, I’ve been considering the parallels between my healing and the process of creating: the attention to detail, the frustration when things don’t go as planned, and the satisfaction of seeing something whole emerge from mud.

There were also moments of deep frustration. Times when I’d look at a piece I was working on and feel like it wasn’t good enough, just like I sometimes felt about my recovery. But pottery has a way of teaching you to embrace imperfections. A tiny crack can become a beautiful line of contrast after firing. A piece that feels uneven or awkward can take on a life of its own once it’s glazed. Beauty doesn’t come from being flawless; it comes from the stories that imperfections tell.

I owe so much to my community. My students who went out of their way to pick me up week after week. My friends who filled my living room with laughter and craft nights. Even the strangers who offered small acts of kindness, like holding a door open or offering a word of encouragement when they saw me struggling with my crutches. All of them contributed to my healing in ways big and small, and their care became as much a part of my journey as the clay beneath my hands.

And then, there’s pottery itself, a practice I’ve loved for years but that has taken on an even deeper meaning since my injury. It saved me, in every sense of the word. It kept me grounded when everything else felt unstable. It connected me to a community of people who lifted me up when I needed it most. And it reminded me, again and again, that I am stronger and more capable than I often give myself credit for.

The pieces I create now feel different. They carry the weight of this experience, the lessons I’ve learned, and the resilience I’ve discovered in myself. They’re not just pots or vases or sculptures, they’re artifacts of survival, hope, and the transformative power of creativity.

Pottery has always been a part of my life, but now it feels like a part of me. It’s the thing that kept me going when I didn’t think I could. It’s the thing that turned pain into beauty, isolation into connection, and uncertainty into growth. And for that, I will always be grateful.