ashamed of how long it took to be gentle, and… relieved it finally happened. chest… aches. writing the letter to my younger self and having to stop twice… it's like being in two places at once. like standing outside myself, watching that kid bleed, wanting to scoop them up but frozen by… what? it isn’t fear. The clay remembers every fumble, every forceful grip. It takes so long to learn to coax instead of demand, to let the form emerge instead of imposing it. And the old pots, the broken ones, they sit in the yard as a reminder – there's no hiding the struggle.