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 a lifeline in pottery, a practice that became my sanctuary, my therapy, and also my connection to the community that carried me through the hardest times of my life.

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. Through it all, pottery was my lifeline, grounding me physically and emotionally in ways I needed.

When I first started walking again, it wasn’t easy. Every step was accompanied by pain, uncertainty, and determination to keep going. But while my body struggled, my heart found refuge in clay. Early on when I couldn’t drive myself to classes, my students stepped up in ways I never expected. For four months, they organized rides for me to and from my pottery class, ensuring I could still be there, crutches, cast, and all.

Teaching while in recovery was both humbling and healing. 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. Often but not always, creativity can be 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 carried me through the weeks and months of disability. It was the reminder I so needed then that sometimes we heal best when we let others carry a bit of the burden for us.

I’ve talked about this with my therapist many times. While I would never choose to break my leg like this, the was a pivotal time for me. A time when I learned the most important lessons of my life.

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 created small sculptures of Moo Deng, a baby hippopotamus in Thailand who went internationally viral on social media. We laughed together at our attempts to capture her character in her pudgey little body. It wasn’t about skill or perfection, the evening was about the joy of creating together. Those moments were medicine for me. They brought laughter and connection back into a life that had felt so focused on pain and recovery, trapped in a chair in my little house. The Moo Deng sculptures have become a reminder of resilience, whimsy, joy, and the power of being with people who care about you.

Even beyond the studio and craft parties, pottery itself was 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 moment in time. On days when my leg felt like it would never stop hurting or when I was frustrated by yet another unsuccessful surgery, 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 earth.

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. Pottery reminded me, again and again, that I am stronger and more capable than I 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 almost 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.