Clay, Crashes & Courage
On not loving the thing you thought would bring you joy
A few weeks ago, I signed up for an 8-week pottery class.
It’s something I’ve wanted to try for years, quietly living on my someday-list, tucked between other dreams I told myself I’d get to when things finally slow down.
As an entrepreneur, one of the gifts I have is a flexible schedule.
Sure, the rollercoaster of entrepreneurship comes with no HR, no PTO, and a boss who never stops thinking…especially at 4 a.m. (hi, it’s me),
but at least I get to decide when I take a pottery class.
When registration opened, I cleared my morning, waited 30 minutes in the online queue, and claimed a spot.
I felt proud, like I had chosen joy. I finally honored a long-overdue promise to myself.
But each week, as I drove to class, I could feel the weight of my to-do list pressing down on my shoulders.
Emails. Deadlines. Slack pings. Client expectations.
All whispering, You should be doing something more “important” than this.
I thought I’d be excited to finally sit at the wheel.
But when I got there, I felt resistance. Dread, even.
Photo I snagged of my neighbors wheel, of course, because it looks more “perfect” than mine.
My body didn’t know how to relax in a space that wasn’t performance-based or outcome-driven.
I didn’t know how to just… be.
Without a goal. Without a result. Without something to show for the time.
It took me straight back to childhood.
I grew up in a strict, achievement-centered household where education was everything and mastery was expected.
Excellence was assumed.
That shaped me. It gave me grit, focus, and drive.
But it also taught me that value is earned through overextension.
That rest is indulgent. That being new at something is dangerous.
I watched my parents hustle.
And they watched their parents hustle.
They didn’t rest because they couldn’t.
Softness wasn’t a privilege they had access to.