Picture this: Copenhagen, Denmark. Summer of 2024.
I was about to wrap up one of the most incredible adventures of my life—living abroad in the Nordics, getting set to return to sweet home Chicago. For anyone who has ever uprooted their life and moved to a new country, you’ll understand when I say: there are no words. It’s the loneliest and yet most connected experience you can have. To traverse a country and its ways—without really knowing them, on your own. In a nation of 6 million, I trusted maybe a handful of people. And it’s where I re-found the trust in me.
In an effort to grow that tiny number of trusted folks, I started taking clay classes at a local studio. I needed something tactile to get out of my head and into my heart—and let’s be real, I can’t draw or paint. So when I saw a “Clay 101” style class teaching three off-the-wheel techniques, my interest peaked. I signed up on impulse... and then immediately freaked out.
Should I study beforehand?
What if I can’t make anything?
What if everyone’s better than me?
What if what I make isn’t good?
WTF did I just do!
That spiral is exactly why I signed up in the first place—to find a creative outlet where judgment doesn’t inhabit. A place where I could let go of the outcome and just enjoy the process. Surrender the need to perform. Just. Have. Fun.
That first class, I learned how to pinch, coil, and slab roll. I made three small pieces—though you’d need a good imagination to guess what they were: a bowl, a vase that moonlighted as an espresso cup, and a soap dish. When I picked them up a week later, I immediately registered for more classes because I had fun (plus a good dose of laughing at myself never hurt anyone). As the owner handed me my items, she smiled and said my little bowl had a “lucky crack.” Most cracks mean the piece shatters in the kiln, but sometimes, just sometimes, a crack weathers the heat and pressure—and becomes part of what makes the piece special. Handmade. One-of-a-kind. Can’t be replicated – even if I tried (sorry, all – you can’t buy this bowl anywhere else other than off my cold dead hands, JK).
With every new session, I met more people—mostly students half my age who had taken some kind of clay work before. But the vibe? Pure joy. Everyone supported each other, sharing tips and design ideas, helping engineer each other’s pieces to life. I still remember the first time I asked for their thoughts—it felt like flying off a cliff in my heart. But together, we created the most perfectly simple guacamole-and-chip—or dip-and-chip—dish. Function and flair.
It was around my fourth or fifth visit when the studio owner pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to become a member. Me—a member of an art studio! A clay studio! I had found my people. A little community of quirky, like-minded creatives—most of them immigrants like me, finding their own way. I was giddy. Like Bambi seeing the butterfly land on his tail giddy.
All that hype and anxiety about trying something new in a new country, trusting the process, saying yes to myself—it landed me a personal invite to be part of something.
I couldn’t believe it.
I also couldn’t believe I was leaving. Heading back to the States. I wanted to join—to keep growing, to keep creating my lopsided, handmade one-of-a-kind pieces.
I couldn’t believe how life had unfolded in a way I never could’ve orchestrated. I mean, how does a Naperville-raised, Chicago-rooted woman married to a Pittsburgher black and yellow loving man end up in Copenhagen, getting invited to join a clay studio? Life. I guess that’s how.
And as I strutted (yes, absolutely strutted) down the streets toward Norreport Station back to Tarnby, something shifted. My feet hit the pavement with a little more purpose, and out of nowhere, the beat of "Break My Stride" filled my head. Mind you, I don’t ever request this song. But in that moment—summer breeze, post-clay giddiness—it hit me like a soundtrack from the universe:
Ain’t nothin’ gonna break my stride
Nobody gonna slow me down
Oh no, I got to keep on moving…
With every verse, something rewired in me. That long-held belief that I wasn’t capable of putting myself out there, that the universe wouldn’t catch me because something was “off” or broken in me? It started to crumble. Right there on those Danish cobblestones.
Now, whenever my mind flutters to those old fears—that I can’t grow this business, that I’m not ready, that I’m stuck in something too heavy to move through—I think of that song. I think of Denmark. I think of those clay classes. I think of the brave little bowl with its perfectly imperfect crack.
Because I can find a way forward. I can trust myself. I can trust those around me—and trust the universe a little, too. Because we can do hard things [#wecandohardthings]. I won’t be derailed, belittled, pushed into a corner. This world is big enough to hold me.
And if you ever need proof?
Just remember: I made a badass bowl with a lucky crack.
If it didn’t break under the heat and pressure, then neither will you.
