In high school, I was passionate about ceramics. It was as close as I ever got to rebelling against my mom— choosing to do 3D art instead of painting.

I loved the pottery studio at the back of the school, filled with wheels, kilns, and buckets of glaze. I loved the long-haired, kind-eyed, enthusiastic teacher who truly saw and celebrated each kid and cup. I loved the pack of art kids clad in ‘90s grunge jeans, flannels, and Doc Martens caked in clay. But mostly I loved the process.

Centering the clay is the crux of throwing pots. If it isn’t done properly, nothing really works. I had to be so present and tuned in. If I pushed too hard, off-center. If I got distracted, off-center. Getting frustrated only made it worse. I had to surrender and try again. Some days it was absolutely impossible.

I’ve started ceramics again in the last couple of years, and the visceral muscle memory is wild. I am 17 again, a pixie mixing glazes and wielding torches and making mud into mugs and goblets. My hands know exactly what to do — these motions I’ve done countless times, so long ago. If I think at all, I mess up. I just have to let my hands do what they know.

After my accident, I’ve continued to hold my pottery studio rental space each month, thinking I would return to this practice of time travel and tactile art making. At first, it was pain that kept me from going. Then my wonky eyes were incapable of focusing on the spinning wheel. But now, after 10 months and lots of recovering, I’ve started going again regularly.

The best cure for empty nesting is a mix of friends, hobbies, and just leaving the damn house. Ceramics is good because once you have something in the process, you have to keep going. If it dries out, it’s over. Each day, another step, and at the end, something useful and beautiful to show for it. Recovering from my accident has provided little opportunity to show accomplishment despite a mountain of effort and time.

The best part of the pottery studio is that I don’t have to talk. Especially not about talking. No one asks if I’m sick, if I’ve lost my voice, or what’s wrong. No one points out, “your voice sounds terrible,” as if I don’t already know. I just put on my headphones, focus on centering, and stay silent.

Lately, I’m not just throwing pots. At home, I have taken to throwing things out of frustration. When trying to interject. Or advocate. To be listened to. It feels so good to just make noise. I completely understand toddlers throwing tantrums because they don’t have words. Sometimes I want to throw everything I can across the room, crash bang boom. It is shocking and absurd and oh so very very loud.

I am running out of resilience.

If I push too hard, off-center. If I get distracted, off-center. Getting frustrated only makes it worse. I can only surrender and try again. Some days it is absolutely impossible.

But, some days, it is.

Today at the studio, I could center the clay every time. Up, down, and there it is, centered. This gives me hope and recharges my fragile resilience a bit. If I can center there, perhaps I can recenter everywhere.