In December 2024, I reached my breaking point. I thought I had reached it earlier, but this was the time when my nervous system had completely broken down. I stepped back from work, from family, from friends. It was all too much. My body was constantly hurting. My anxiety was through the roof. Some days, it was hard to leave my apartment and go out into the world knowing that all of my senses would be overstimulated within minutes.
I didn’t know what to reach for to help me in such a vulnerable state. And in a moment of clarity, perhaps, I reached for clay.
I hadn’t touched clay in years. I had an idea of what I wanted to make, so I got one box of clay and started my journey of returning to it. I made clay bunnies. And then January 2025 came, and my creative capacity went away.
I had to start within. I had to focus on rebuilding my own foundation. I went on a long journey of nervous system repair. A lot of that work was learning to listen to my body and respond to what it was asking of me. Setting boundaries was a must. And the best mantra to come out of that time was a simple one: I choose me.
Then March 2026 came around. I felt grounded. Not more like my old self, but more like this new version of myself. And she had creative capacity. In fact, she yearned for it.
So I went into my closet, took out my clay, and began making again.
I started with Moon Bunnies because I love lunar rituals. Learning to get their proportions to a satisfactory rotundness was a challenge. Each bunny was going to carry a phase of the moon. I made many of them and never quite landed on anything that felt right. So when the frustration started to rise, I decided to shift. It wasn’t time for Moon Bunnies.
Then I began making a different kind of bunny. A bunny wearing a hoodie. She became my Calm Hoodie Bunny. Her face was gentle. Closed eyes. A soft smile. A whimsical, storybook quality. Her hands were tucked into the front pocket of an oversized, snuggly hoodie. I looked at her when she was finished and felt a spark. This kind of making felt right. Characters.
My next character was a cat. I remember making his body and then his face. I looked around for something that would make perfectly round eyes and discovered that the top of a pen worked best. His eyes felt open, joyful, and curious. He had a sweet smile. He stood tall and proud.
I put him on my banding wheel and spun him around. And suddenly I got the impression: I need overalls. So the next day, he got overalls. And somehow, that completed him. Overalls Cat had arrived.
Then came my Spirit Orbs. The idea came because I wanted a simple form that still held meaning. I was thinking about the orbs people sometimes see in photographs or on camera, the ones some people call spirit orbs. After losing my grandmother in 2023, I liked the idea of loved ones visiting us this way.
The Spirit Orbs were made simply. I put some clay in my hand and formed a small ball. I squeezed it a few times. That was enough. It was done. I added small eyes with a needle tool and a simple mouth. Some smiled. Some smirked. Everyone got their own expression.
And then I paused. I lined everyone up for a group photo: Moon Bunnies, Calm Hoodie Bunny, Overalls Cat, Spirit Orbs. And I looked at them. Really looked. I asked myself: Why these?
And then I laughed.
Oh.
These figures are all parts of me.
The Moon Bunnies feel mystical, connected to something unseen, a quiet kind of magic. The Calm Hoodie Bunny holds calm and safety, the part that sits, softens, and breathes. Overalls Cat is playful and alert, ready to engage with the world. And the Spirit Orbs feel like steady, otherworldly beings. Simple. Reliable. Just there with you.
I didn’t plan any of this. I just made what wanted to come through. And now I could see it so clearly. It was like a small ecosystem of different states, all coexisting. All allowed.
Discovering the Artist I Had Become
When I had to stop everything and focus on my own healing, clay became part of that process. And this is part of what I found: all of these really beautiful parts of myself that did not rely on outside circumstances. They weren’t labels placed on me by my work, my family, my friends, or society. They weren’t roles I had to perform or identities I had to maintain for someone else.
They were mine. An identity not tied to anything but me.
And perhaps that is why returning to clay felt so different this time. I wasn’t returning to the artist I had been. I was discovering the artist I had become.
And then came the exciting question: Which part of me wants to come forward next?
Because we all hold many parts of ourselves, many more have stepped forward since. And I’m excited to keep creating whatever wants to come next.
Heather
Heather is a Registered Clinical Counsellor and Registered Art Therapist, and the founder of Constellations Counselling in Vancouver, BC. Her own return to ceramics has deeply influenced the way she brings clay into therapeutic spaces, with an emphasis on slowing down, curiosity, creative exploration, and allowing the process to matter as much as what is made.
She created The Clay Circle, a small therapeutic clay and art therapy group in Vancouver where many of these lessons are woven into the experience. It is a space to work with clay, reconnect with creativity, and explore what might emerge when we give ourselves permission to make without needing to make something perfect.