Clay keeps me honest. It doesn’t let you rush. It cracks when you force it, slumps when you don’t listen. It’s a conversation, really—and like any good one, it’s built on patience, vulnerability, and a fair bit of laughter.

My journey into ceramics came after years spent in very different rooms—first in the military, then in social work. Those worlds taught me a lot about people: what breaks us, what heals us, and how deeply we crave moments of beauty and stillness in a chaotic world. I carry those lessons into the studio. Each piece I make is an echo of that search—for meaning, for connection, for something solid to hold onto.

I work mostly with stoneware, drawn to its strength and practicality. My process encompasses a mix of hand building, throwing, and sculpting—methods that let me stay close to the clay, respond to it. I’m not interested in perfection. I’m interested in work that feels lived-in. Work that’s quietly alive.

In the end, I think what I’m doing is making small, tangible offerings—objects that invite touch, pause, and reflection. A good mug, a bowl that fits just right in your hands—these things matter more than we admit. They hold our rituals. They mark our days.

For me, working with clay is a way of staying grounded in the mess and wonder of being human. It’s a kind of poetry, really. The kind you can drink your tea from.