Before pottery - I was burning out. Let me take you on my journey.
It was February 2019. I was studying statistics at Lancaster University and struggling to keep my stress levels at bay. I have always struggled with anxiety and stress. To be completely honest depression had taken over for a lot of my 20s and returning to University at 30 felt like a last ditch attempt at reclaiming my life.
I decided to get away from the computer, to just do SOMETHING with my hands. I signed up for an "Introduction to hand building" pottery night class.
When I arrived, I felt intimidated. The other class members all looked so... creative. My self talk was destructive: "I'm not an artist. I have no place being here. I don't have an creative bone in my body."
Despite my fear, there was something about that class that kept me going back.
That something was that nobody else cared about what I made. If it was good or bad, if it showed any technical skill, it didn't matter.
The focus, instead, was on turning up, on who wanted milk in their coffee. The focus was on finally on humans, not production.. Humans just muddling along, taking time for themselves to make the same things our ancestors have been making for tens of thousands of years: cups, bowls, and art.
As I got more and more obsessed with pottery, I joined the community studio. Pottery didn't save me from the next stress induced sick leave, but it did give me a purpose while I was off work. I would cycle to Halton Mill (my nearest studio), clean the floors, learn to throw on a pottery wheel and reclaim clay. I was strong, part of a community, healthy and getting ready to return to my studies.
After I got out of hospital, I had a couple of months of recovery time before the 2020 Covid19 lockdowns began. My cardiac rehab got me to the point where I could cycle to the pottery studio, but as March rolled round I quickly discovered that my fear of going to hospital again prevented me from venturing far from home. I had no access to a kiln and I had to learn how to continue creating without it.
This brought me to pit firing. You form the items and then fire them in what is essentially a bonfire. The smoke from the fire decorates the pots, and the heat hardens them so that they keep their form. Sometimes pieces break, and the final finish is really varied and wild.
In this way, pit firing asks you to let go of perfectionism - something I've always really struggled with. Imperfection is what makes these pots, and ourselves, beautiful and unique. When the first lockdown eased, I managed to get an old kiln refurbished to fire glazed work at home, but I continue to make pit fired work. Both for myself, and for people like me. People who need a reminder that they are beautiful because of their imperfection, and who need anchoring back to themselves as their anxiety, overwhelm or stress takes them out of their bodies.
After I got out of hospital, I had a couple of months of recovery time before the 2020 Covid19 lockdowns began. My cardiac rehab got me to the point where I could cycle to the pottery studio, but as March rolled round I quickly discovered that my fear of going to hospital again prevented me from venturing far from home. I had no access to a kiln and I had to learn how to continue creating without it.
This brought me to pit firing. You form the items and then fire them in what is essentially a bonfire. The smoke from the fire decorates the pots, and the heat hardens them so that they keep their form. Sometimes pieces break, and the final finish is really varied and wild.
In this way, pit firing asks you to let go of perfectionism - something I've always really struggled with. Imperfection is what makes these pots, and ourselves, beautiful and unique. When the first lockdown eased, I managed to get an old kiln refurbished to fire glazed work at home, but I continue to make pit fired work. Both for myself, and for people like me. People who need a reminder that they are beautiful because of their imperfection, and who need anchoring back to themselves as their anxiety, overwhelm or stress takes them out of their bodies.
After my fear of hospital eased, I spent a lot of time walking in our local woods. People of all ages had been leaving painted stones and bark for others to find. This emotional connection to others was so vital for me throughout 2020. In return I collaborated with Holm Cafe to set up "Clay at Holm". Through this we offered clay for those who want to try making something at home. The response to this project has been incredible, and shown a clear demand for craft/art as a form of therapy during these difficult times.
Over the first few years I begun selling online and through local stockists. It was an an incredible start. I paid off that refurbished kiln, and raised money for charities that mean a lot to me - Papyrus UK, Refuge UK, and EggCup Lancaster. I've worked with individuals and businesses on commission pieces, dinnerware sets and flower bowls. I've collaborated with local groups, such as Cold Dark North, and I've even set up workshops of my own, where I meet beginners who are looking for exactly what I found in my first lessons: a break from productivity, time to create, and a focus on clay.
In 2023 I teamed up with Sarah Galloway and Alan Morris to set up Assembly Arts - artist studios, gallery and lessons right in the centre of Lancaster. That was a wild ride but, that studio feels like home now. It created the space for me to see myself as an artist, and in 2025 I successfully applied for the Arts Council England DYCP grant, which funded a year of research into creating immersive and interactive work, directly related to my neurodivergence.
The Next Layer: Wearable Anchors
As the years have moved on from that hospital bed, my relationship with clay and memory has only deepened. Navigating the long-term effects of that trauma, alongside aphantasia and a sensitive, neurodivergent nervous system, means the modern world still frequently feels overwhelming to me. I still find myself 'floating away' or feeling out of place in loud, fast public spaces.
I began creating my latest collection of heavy ceramic jewelry because I needed a portable version of the studio sanctuary. I wanted a beautiful weighted blanket I could take out with me to fancy or crowded places.
When I press the weight of the clay pendant against my skin, or feel the rigid, protective coil of a ceramic ring preventing me from bending my finger, my nervous system drops. It is a somatic reset button. They work as physical tethers to myself, reminding me that I have a body, I am standing on solid ground, and I am safe inside myself, and that I am part of a lineage reaching back to our ancient neolithic, clay using, ancestors.
Whether I am building a large figurative sculpture, throwing a daily tea vessel, or weaving a heavy suit of ceramic chain mail armour, my life's practice remains identical: I am locking fleeting, malleable moments into permanent stone. I am making anchors for an untethered world. And I am reminding both myself, and you, that we are already good enough.
Rae x