Most people walk into beginner pottery class confident. Not in an arrogant way. Just informed. They’ve watched the videos. They’ve seen the perfectly centered clay. They’ve watched someone pull walls in one smooth, effortless motion. It looks easy.

So I start every class the same way:

“I know you’ve watched videos. Just remember — those people have been throwing for 5 to 20 years and/or they take multiple takes. They edit.”

Everyone nods. They understand that.

But understanding something intellectually is not the same as experiencing it physically.

The First Reality Check

Before the wheel even starts to rotate, I ask them to pound their clay into a smooth round ball with their palms. It surprises them every time.

Clay looks soft. It is soft. But shaping it requires force. Coordinated, consistent force.

You can see the moment it registers: “Oh. This is harder than I thought.” Their hands get tired. Their shoulders tense. They realize clay doesn’t respond to gentle wishing. It responds to pressure.

Watching is passive.

Making is physical.

The Second Reality Check

Then we get to the wheel.

I demonstrate with a larger piece of clay so they can see each stage — centering, coning up, coning down, opening, pulling the walls. I exaggerate the movements so nothing is hidden. But what I can’t exaggerate is pressure. You cannot see how much pressure it takes to center clay.

When they begin, there’s almost always a mental picture in their heads. A cereal bowl. A soup bowl. Something symmetrical and Pinterest-worthy. And that picture becomes the problem.

About an hour in, most of them hit a wall. They’re trying to control the clay into becoming the thing they imagined. Their hands are tense. Their breathing gets shallow. The wheel feels like it’s fighting them. This is the moment that fascinates me. The breakthrough never happens when they push harder. It happens when they let go of the image in their head. When they stop trying to prove they can do it and start feeling what the clay is actually doing.

There’s always a bell curve. A few surrender quickly. Most wrestle with control for a while. One or two cling to the idea of “what it should look like” until the very end. The ones who struggle the most are rarely the least capable. They’re the ones most afraid to look bad.

The Real Skill No One Talks About

The hardest part of learning pottery isn’t centering. It’s tolerating being bad at something in front of others. We are not practiced at that.

As kids, we made things constantly. We were messy and experimental and unfiltered. As adults, we’re conditioned to perform competence. We don’t raise our hands unless we know the answer. We don’t try things unless we think we’ll be decent at them.

We don’t like visible struggle.

But learning anything tactile — anything honest — requires visible struggle. You have to be willing to make something uneven. You have to be willing to collapse a wall. You have to be willing to look down at your wheel and think, “That’s not what I pictured.” And stay anyway. That’s the real discipline. Not talent. Staying.

The Shift

Sometimes the shift doesn’t come from me.

It comes when someone looks around the room and realizes every other person’s piece is imperfect too.

That’s when shoulders drop. That’s when breathing changes. That’s when permission enters the room. Suddenly the “failed cereal bowl” becomes a small succulent planter. Or a salt dish. Or simply a first attempt.

When they stop trying to make something impressive and start making something real, the clay responds.

And so do they.

Watching Feels Productive. Making Exposes You.

We consume constantly. Videos. Tutorials. Inspiration. Perfectly edited outcomes.

Watching feels like progress. But making exposes you. It reveals how patient you are. How frustrated you get. How tightly you grip control. How quickly you want to be good.

I sometimes worry we’ve trained ourselves to believe watching is the same as doing.

It isn’t.

Doing confronts you with who you are in the middle of not being good yet.

Letting Yourself Be Bad Long Enough to Improve

The adults who grow the most in a single class aren’t the naturally coordinated ones.

They’re the ones who decide — consciously or not — that it’s okay to be a beginner. They stop protecting their ego. They stop chasing the perfect bowl. They stay with the clay long enough for their hands to learn what their brain can’t shortcut.

Most of us don’t struggle because we can’t learn. We struggle because we’re trying to look competent while learning. And those two things don’t coexist well. Improvement requires a period of visible incompetence. There’s no way around it. The only question is whether you leave during that stage — or stay.

Watching Is Clean. Making Is Honest.

Videos are clean. Making is messy, physical, humbling. You can’t edit pressure. You can’t retake centering in real time. You can’t hide from frustration.

And that’s the part people don’t expect.
Creation forces you into relationship with reality — your hands, your strength, your patience, your ego. You don’t just make a bowl. You confront yourself.

So when was the last time you let yourself be bad at something long enough to actually get better?

- Jen 💛