The Loft — Where Forgotten Things Found New Life

In 2013, my pottery studio began not with a grand plan, but with a quiet rebellion against the idea that creative dreams must wait for “someday.” Pottery has always been a thread in my life—a skill I fell in love with as a pre teen and persuaded into my university days. But like the loft itself, that passion had been neglected over the years. After graduation, work commitments and the logistics of finding dedicated studio space pushed clay to the sidelines. Life became a cycle of “later,” until one day, my husband recommended the little neglected space above his office.

At the time, pottery had become a hobby again—it was a lifeline, a way to carve out space for myself in the whirlwind of life. The spark? A simple, stubborn urge to make: to shape clay into something tangible, imperfect, and alive.

The loft above my husband’s real estate office seemed like an unlikely birthplace for this dream. Tucked away up a narrow staircase, it was a dusty repository for forgotten things—old files, abandoned office chairs, and the kind of clutter that accumulates when a space has no purpose. But my husband saw my work and my potential. Together, we hauled out boxes and old desks, patched cracks in the walls, and scrubbed away years of neglect. He wielded a hammer; I daydreamed about shelves for glaze jars and the hum and click of a kiln.

When the dust settled, we’d carved out 300 square feet of magic. Finally, I had what I’d lacked since university: a dedicated space to reclaim my craft. Crammed into that tiny loft was a kiln, one worktable, a potter’s wheel, and just enough floor space for me to dance between wet clay and drying shelves. It wasn’t glamorous—the ceiling was so low I had to put caution tape in the doorframe so I wouldn't bump my head—but it was mine. A secret studio, hidden in plain sight.

Teaching children was a practical decision at first: how could I justify spending hours in this tiny, reclaimed world? The answer was to share it. Little hands smearing clay on tables, wide-eyed gasps as lumpy creations emerged from the kiln—it gave my studio time a purpose beyond myself. But I quickly realized the classes were as much for me as for them. The kids’ endless “whys?” “whats?” and “hows?” became my own. Why does glaze change color? How does the kiln work? I dove into books, experimented with new techniques, and relearned my craft through their curiosity. The studio was no longer just a hiding place—it was a classroom, and I was both teacher and student.

The Challenges? Oh, they were there. Every inch mattered. I learned to stack bisque ware like Jenga towers, tuck tools into awkward cubby-holes in the wall, build shelves in empty door frames. But the constraints became part of the creativity. The loft forced me to simplify, to focus on what truly mattered—not just the pottery, but the act of prioritizing joy amid a life that had once felt too crowded for it. The studio became proof that even fragmented time, when guarded fiercely, could reignite a neglected passion.

Then came the new chapter: pregnancy. As my belly grew, navigating the loft’s tight corners turned into a comedic shuffle. I’d bump my belly on the piece drying on the table, and have to awkwardly navigate around students. But even as my body changed, the studio remained my sanctuary—a place where I could still feel like me, even as I prepared to become someone new: a mother.

Looking back, the loft was more than a workspace. It was a metaphor. We’d taken a forgotten space—and a forgotten part of myself—and given both a purpose.