A Quiet Kiln: Unveiling My Ceramic World Through Soft Stories, Not Scrolls

I’ve always dreamed of creating an online sanctuary for my handmade ceramics — a quiet little place floating in the vast universe where people could wander in, discover my work, and maybe take a piece home with them. But there’s always been one thing that held me back — myself.

From the very beginning of my ceramics journey, I’ve asked myself again and again: What kind of artist do I want to become? What will my voice, my style, my essence be? I was terrified that I might never find it. That maybe I had nothing to say. The road of self-doubt was — and still is — long and winding. I don’t think it ever truly ends. There are always questions gently tapping at the edges of my mind. What if I’m not enough? What if no one connects with my work? Or worse, what if I’m walking the wrong path entirely?

Overthinking is something I know too well. I used to ask myself — Why can’t I just begin? Just make something, anything, and release it into the world? But now I understand why. And though the self-doubt hasn’t vanished, it no longer hovers as heavily over me. That shift, that clarity, arrived during our trip to Kyoto.

If you’ve read my very first blog, you’ll know what I mean. Kyoto changed something in me. I realized I didn’t want to just make things. I didn’t want to create for the sake of producing what was popular or trending. I cared deeply about what I was bringing into the world. I still do.

That trip was profound in quiet, unexpected ways. It helped me see the hidden parts of myself, the quieter artist within — much like discovering wildflowers unfolding, one petal at a time.

One afternoon, we stumbled across a small, almost-hidden ceramic shop tucked away in a narrow Kyoto alley. It wasn’t grand, and it wasn’t on any map. No website. No online store. There were even handwritten signs asking visitors not to take photographs. In a world where everything is digitized and shared, I found that deeply moving. At first, I wondered why, but I understood. That space was sacred. It honored the artist’s intent, their boundaries, and their privacy. It reminded me that not all beauty is made for the algorithm.

Though the little shop might have flourished with more presence, perhaps even become well known, the owner remained untouched by the allure of opportunity. Their purpose lived elsewhere, rooted in something quieter, more sacred. It was never about the noise; it was about the meaning.

The pieces in that shop weren’t clamoring for attention. They simply were. Waiting to be found, not followed. It felt like uncovering a hidden gem — something magical, something rare. And that’s how I want my work to feel, too.

Before launching my own website, I had countless worries. What if no one finds me? Should I create a presence beyond a website and YouTube, perhaps Instagram or TikTok too? What if I don’t sell anything? What if I make mistakes? I even opened an Instagram account and nearly fell into the rhythm of posting reels, joining the tide of creators feeding the ever-hungry algorithm. 

But in my heart, I knew that wasn’t my path. I didn’t want to compete in a space that thrives on noise. That’s not where I find joy. That’s not why I create. I may one day wander into the world of other social media platforms or explore new paths, but if and when I do, it will be with joy in my heart, purpose in my step, and intention guiding my way. 

For now, I’ll remain here, gathering my thoughts, moments, and handmade pieces in this quiet corner, where I can be honest and unhurried. 

Thanks to that quiet revelation in Kyoto, I finally understood: I want to make work that speaks in whispers, not shouts. Pieces that feel like a soft exhale, that carry fragments of my heart. I don’t want to mass-produce. I don’t want to go viral. That life, while exciting for some, isn’t the one I seek.

I live with an illness that, while not defining me, reminds me daily of my limits. My 100% now looks different than it once did. And I’ve learned to listen to my body instead of fighting it. Chasing virality would only bring stress I cannot — and do not want to — hold. Moving to Japan was a decision to live a quieter, more intentional life. And this, too, is part of that choice.

Yes, one day, I’d love to open a small studio — a peaceful space filled with soul and stories, much like that little Kyoto shop. Somehow, the intention behind the shop owner was giving me a relief. A relief that I don’t have to be just like anybody else. 

Although I don’t have a physical shop waiting to be discovered, I’ve carved out a cozy corner of the internet. A digital home for my pieces, quietly waiting to be discovered by those who wander in. Whoever you are, I hope you feel the care in every curve, every glaze, every small imperfection. And if one of them speaks to you, I hope you take it home.