I used to think a crack in a glaze meant the whole pot was ruined, destined for the smash bin. Now I see it as a kind of roadmap, showing where the clay wanted to move. I used to chase perfection like a smooth, flawless firing, terrified of pinholes and warps. Now I see the beauty in the wabi-sabi, the accidental drip, the slight lean that tells a story of the making. The kiln gods have a sense of humor, and fighting them is a waste of good clay. I used to sand away every trace of my fingerprints, striving for that factory finish. Now I leave them, a quiet testament to the human hand that shaped it, the slight wobble a reminder that perfection is a cold and lonely place. I used to hide my stretch marks, buying creams and feeling ashamed. Now I trace them with my fingers, marveling at the strength it took for my body to create and sustain life. What I thought was broken was actually bending, becoming something new.