It was never really about the pottery

I've always been a serial hobbyist. Golf, guitar, piano, drums, snowboarding, knitting—you name it, I've probably tried it. Some stuck longer than others. Pottery, though, was different.

There's something oddly satisfying about sitting behind a pottery wheel, getting your hands covered in clay and spending two hours trying to make something that vaguely resembles a bowl. Although I have to give credit to my mugs...

But somewhere along the way, I realized the best thing I was making wasn't actually pottery.

It was community.

I spent three months in Kansas City, and to say they were some of the hardest months of my life would be an understatement. I was at one of my lowest points, questioning just about every decision I'd made and wondering if I was even headed in the right direction.

I didn't have a lot of answers. Frankly, I didn't even know what questions I should be asking.

But I had pottery.

What started as something to keep myself busy became the thing I looked forward to most. For a few hours, I could put everything else aside, get my hands dirty and focus on making something. Even if that something ended up looking nothing like what I'd intended.

And then there were the people.

I met some of the most wonderful people during those three months. People I might never have crossed paths with otherwise, brought together by a shared interest in making things out of mud. Different ages, different stories, different reasons for being there.

I don't think any of them realized just how much those little interactions meant to me.

When you're going through a difficult time, it's easy to retreat into yourself. To convince yourself that you need to figure everything out before you can start enjoying life again. But those afternoons spent at the clay guild reminded me that life doesn't have to be completely figured out to be worth showing up for.

Kansas City wasn't the chapter I expected it to be. And looking back, I'm not sure I'd change that.

I went there thinking I needed to figure out my future. Instead, I found people who made the present a little easier to love.

I still have a lot to learn about pottery. My bowls aren't always symmetrical, my mugs have questionable proportions, and I have a long way to go before anyone should trust me to make their dinnerware.

But I think that's part of the beauty of it.

You show up. You make a mess. You try again.

And every once in a while, you make something worth keeping.

For me, that was never really the pottery.