The irony isn’t lost on me.

There were years when I barely made anything at all. It turns out not making art takes just as much out of me as making art gives back.

Then, in 2019, everything shifted.

After my first son was born, I bought a tiny kiln from a friend and got my hands back into clay. That little kiln quietly became the beginning of 1070 Design.

Clay felt free and permanent at the same time. I wasn’t confined by the edges of a canvas. I could build in every direction, following my intuition as a form slowly emerged beneath my hands. But what fascinated me most was its transformation. A

humble lump of earth, soft enough to collapse if you looked at it funny, could become something permanent through pressure, patience, and fire.

I don’t think it was ever just about the clay.

Something about that process spoke directly to me. Clay doesn’t become stronger by avoiding the kiln. It becomes stronger by moving through it.

Life, as it turns out, had a few kilns waiting for me too.

After my second son was born, creativity quietly slipped onto the back burner. Then came divorce, the hardest season of my life. I stopped making things altogether. I lost touch with the part of myself that had always known who I was.

Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t creating, but I was still being transformed.

Coming back to art felt less like finding something new and more like finding myself again.

These days I create with intuition leading the way. Every piece is an opportunity to practice trusting myself a little more. Art has become less about making something perfect and more about listening.

I’ve also stopped trying to fit myself into one category.

For decades I searched for the label that would finally explain me. Artist. Ceramicist. Painter. Designer. Sculptor. Woodworker. Human who gets distracted by shiny new materials.

The truth is, I’ve never fit neatly into one box, and honestly, I’m relieved about that.

My curiosity naturally bounces between mediums. What started with crayons and colored pencils wandered into paint, ceramics, woodworking, glass blowing, and sculpture. Learning a new material makes my heart feel ridiculously full. I used to think changing directions meant I lacked focus. Now I think it’s just how my creativity likes to move.

Transformation has become the thread running through everything I make.

I’m interested in the quiet kind. The kind that happens slowly. The kind you almost miss because it doesn’t announce itself. Earth becomes stone. An idea becomes an object. A woman learns to trust herself again.

I believe objects can carry intention. Every piece I make holds the energy I bring to it. Through intuition, care, and attention, I hope my work becomes a small invitation toward a kinder, more connected world. One where beauty isn’t reserved for galleries or experts, but lives in kitchens, on bookshelves, in quiet morning rituals, and in ordinary hands.

The art world has often felt serious, cold, and masculine to me. So much celebrated work has explored suffering, trauma, and violence. Those stories matter. They deserve space.

But I’m interested in what comes after.

I’m interested in healing. In possibility. In joy that isn’t naive. In beauty that doesn’t apologize for itself.

Maybe that’s why I keep coming back to art.

Every time I work with clay, I’m reminded that transformation is possible.

Not because we become someone else.

Because we become more fully ourselves