A Decade of Clay: From a Calling to a Career

This month, Notary turns ten years old. It is a milestone that feels completely surreal, deeply humbling, and, if I am being entirely honest, like something I wasn’t always sure I could pull off.

Before there was a brick-and-mortar studio in Portland, before there were shelves lined with ceramics, there was a winding creative journey that took over a decade to unfold. My eye for texture and composition was shaped early on by growing up rurally in Helvetia, Oregon—surrounded by old barns, gravel roads, and the quiet rhythms of country life.

I eventually left that rural landscape to attend the University of Puget Sound, graduating with a degree in anthropology and absolutely no idea what to do next.

Like many creative paths, mine wasn't a straight line. I started by launching a small clothing line, which sparked my love for textiles and independent design. That experience opened the door to becoming a buyer for a beautiful independent shop called Mimi & Lena. Surrounded by curated, thoughtful goods every day, I began to find my visual voice, which slowly,  over the next decade, lead to a freelance career in photo-styling.

For too long, my sense of worth, my creative validation, and my daily purpose were completely intertwined with the fast-paced, demanding world of styling. I loved the artistry of composing a beautiful image, but it was an identity that demanded everything from me. Eventually, the relentless schedule caught up with me. My health begged and eventually demanded, that I find a life with less stress, and at the same time, my two young daughters simply needed more of me. I knew I had to step away from the career I had spent ten years painstakingly building.

Looking for a creative outlet that offered stillness, I signed up for a weekly clay class alongside a group of retired women. In that slow, tactile environment, away from the pressure of a camera lens, everything shifted. I quickly saw that my love for this medium could take me in an entirely new direction. Stepping into a completely different creative career in my thirties—as a self-taught ceramicist with two toddlers at my feet—felt incredibly vulnerable. I had no business blueprint, but I had found a medium that healed me.

Becoming a beginner again meant that every time I sat down at the wheel, I battled the internal voice that asked who I thought I was to leave a successful career for a craft I was still learning. I spent the early days recovering from failed firings and wondering if I had made a massive mistake.

But humble beginnings have a way of leading to unexpected places. Slowly, the clay taught me patience. What started as a quiet sanctuary gradually outgrew its initial boundaries. When , after two years, I finally moved into our Portland studio space, the community caught me; neighbors would literally peek through the open door and ask if they could buy the unfinished pieces sitting on the drying racks. Little by little, the studio became a shop, and the shop became a community.

Looking back over the last decade, I realize that Notary was built on the courage to choose health, family, and the willingness to let go of an old identity to make room for a new one. It was built by showing my daughters that it is never too late to reinvent yourself, to be a beginner, and to build something completely fresh with your own two hands.

Thank you for the last ten years of support, encouragement, and shared rituals. I am so incredibly grateful to be here.