Ceramics, to me, are far more than just a form of art, or a way to express myself. Like everyone else, I dabbled in ceramics during high school art class, but it wasn’t until around three years ago that I started getting into it as an adult. I joined an art therapy group to help cope with PTSD, and aside from a short period when we weren’t able to meet due to COVID-19, I’ve been at it nearly once a week ever since. I love ceramics for so many reasons. It’s incredibly meditative and therapeutic, and I’d go as far as to call it spiritual in a way. There’s something beautifully healing about being able to take a piece of earth and sculpt, or build, or throw on the wheel… simply create something new. It’s fascinating to notice as I progress that my pots mirror my mental health. It’s easy to see when I am having particularly bad days; I feel uninspired, angry, or impatient, and it shows up in the art. I am meticulous and so patient on good days, and those pots and bowls generally turn out the best. However, I’m proud of all of them, whether they were made patiently and turned out beautifully, or whether they were made through angry tears and turned out misshapen and disappointing. A huge struggle for me throughout my whole life has been perfectionism, and ceramics pushes me to let that go every time I do it. As there are multiple processes and stages in pottery, like sculpting or throwing, trimming, and painting, there are many places where things can go “wrong.” I made a bowl once that I thought at its throwing and trimming phases was the best thing I’d ever made in my whole life, but once painted and fired again, it turned out so unlike what I expected, and I hated it with every fiber of my being… until I realized it was a great life lesson. We can do everything “right” or to the best of our abilities, and sometimes things just don’t turn out how we wanted them to. You have to accept things for what they are, not what you wanted them to be. Ceramics has been a calming, creative addition to my life. It has taught me more about self-love and acceptance than any book. It continues to bring joy throughout the week as I use the things I’ve made and get reminded daily while drinking my morning coffee or eating fried rice out of something I made with my own hands… possibly cried over, that life is beautiful, and complicated, and hard, and ugly, and surprising. And I can agonize over every little thing and tear myself apart from the inside out, or I can accept it for what it is, grow from it, and move on.

Self-acceptance is the critical foundation of self-love, and it is incredibly difficult to accept oneself if one is in denial of their own identity. I grew up in a strict, conservative, religious family. My parents homeschooled me, spending a great deal of energy emphasizing the importance of the "traditional family," i.e., one man with one woman who make little Christian babies. I was told anything else was unnatural and sinful. The issue? That model is not even remotely close to who I am or what I want for my life. As an adult, after feeling broken and dirty for years, burying my feelings, and hating myself for who I was born as, I finally started going to therapy. Through long hours of talking through everything, I came into the realization that my parents' opinions and ideas do not define who I am. It is not an "abomination" to love another human being, and I am not dirty or broken for how I feel. Unfortunately, I am still closeted to my family. The fear of being disowned and kicked out of my (also conservative and religious) aunt’s home where I am living during college is hard to get around. Even though I am still closeted in one half of my life, I am out in the other half, to my friends. I have a couple of friends who, despite their similar upbringing, have changed their minds and come to accept me. One defended homosexuality to their own homophobic husband in front of me when he said he would be angry if his baby grew up to be gay. That one moment of vocal support from someone who I didn’t realize had finally changed their mind did something to me. I felt validated. Accepted. Loved. It had made no difference in my heart how many internet personalities or writers talked about the LGBTQ+ community in a positive light, but when one of my real-life friends stood up for me, that mattered. It was a tangible experience. I hope to be that for people. I want to be kind, accepting, and safe for friends and strangers. Having conversations about my identity with my homophobic family is difficult, if not impossible. I walk on eggshells around them, bringing it up abstractly here and there, trying to poke some humanity into them before I feel safe outing myself. I wish I could bring home a girlfriend for Thanksgiving dinner, and not have to worry about the judgement and scorn that would come from such an action. Maybe someday I’ll be able to.