I Don’t Make a Living from My Jewelry Business
This is the Truth
There’s something I’ve been wanting to share for a while. A truth that feels a little raw, but also real—and I think it deserves space here.
Anam Cara Clay Goods…
it’s not a hobby I pick up when I have free time. It’s the thing that lives in my bones. It takes up my weekends, my evenings, my dreams, my worries, and my deepest joy.
I don’t make a living from Anam Cara Clay Goods.
Since I started this handmade jewelry business in 2022, I haven’t turned a profit. Yep. That’s the reality. My business isn’t my livelihood—not in the financial sense, anyway. I wish it was sustainable enough to be. I wish I could tell you that I pay the bills through earrings alone. But that’s just not how life looks right now.
I grew up watching this kind of struggle up close. My dad was a full-time artist—deeply talented, passionate, and committed to his craft. But it was hard. We weren’t wealthy. My parents sacrificed a lot so he could follow his dream. Some months, it didn’t pay the bills. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t easy. And yet, it was powerful. Because I saw what it meant to build a life around creating.
Now I’m here, decades later, walking a similar path. I have a full-time job that I love (and am deeply grateful for), but that doesn’t mean Anam Cara Clay Goods is just a side gig. It’s not a hobby I pick up when I have free time. It’s the thing that lives in my bones. It takes up my weekends, my evenings, my dreams, my worries, and my deepest joy.
Why I'm Sharing This Now
I’ve gone back and forth about whether to even write about this. Not because I’m ashamed, but because this space is usually filled with color, creativity, and encouragement—and I’ve wondered if pulling back the curtain in this way might shift the tone. But the truth is, I’m sharing this now because I value honesty, and because I know I’m not the only one navigating the in-between.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on what it means to be an artist, a small business owner, and a human being trying to create something meaningful while still holding the realities of life. I’ve had conversations with customers and fellow creatives who assume that what I do is “enough” to sustain me—and while I’m proud of what I’ve built, that’s just not the whole picture.
I’m not sharing this for sympathy or applause. I’m sharing this because I believe in transparency. Because someone out there might need to hear that making art you love—while juggling other work, responsibilities, or financial limitations—doesn’t make you any less “real” as an artist or a business owner.
This is also a quiet affirmation: that what I do here at Anam Cara Clay Goods is driven by love, not by pressure. That every collection, every post, and every market is built on passion and purpose—even if it’s not what pays the bills.
The Quiet Fade of Creative Voices
I’ve watched so many polymer clay artists and other small handmade businesses quietly close their doors this year. And it breaks my heart. Not because they weren’t talented—they are. Not because they didn’t care—they care deeply. But because sometimes passion just isn’t enough to stand up against the weight of burnout, financial stress, the ever-changing algorithms, or the constant pressure to produce more, post more, sell more.
These are artists who pour their souls into their work. Who stay up late perfecting designs, balancing full-time jobs, family responsibilities, and still showed up at markets with hope and handmade goods in hand. And yet, despite the beauty and effort, the support didn’t always meet the need.
What hurts the most is how quietly it happens. One day they’re posting joyful photos of their latest collection—and the next, their account goes silent. A goodbye note. A message about stepping away. No big announcement, no headlines. Just another creative voice fading from the feed.
I get it. I’ve felt that pull too—the question of “Is this sustainable? Is anyone still listening? Does this matter?”
And let me tell you, it does matter. Every piece made with heart matters. Every story shared, every creation sent out into the world—it all matters.
So if you’ve noticed the silence in the handmade community lately, know that it’s not just you. There are so many of us holding grief for what’s being lost, while still holding onto hope for what’s possible. And if you're still here—still making, still believing—you are not alone. I'm standing right beside you.
Because someone out there…
might need to hear that making art you love—while juggling other work, responsibilities, or financial limitations—doesn’t make you any less “real” as an artist or a business owner.
Why Art Still Matters
This work—this creative work—isn’t just a hobby. It’s full of calling, of purpose, of soul. It’s how we make sense of the world. How we process grief and joy and everything in between. It’s how we connect, how we communicate, how we leave something meaningful behind.
Far too often, artists are not taken seriously. We’re told our creativity is “cute” or “fun.” That we’re “playing” or “dabbling.” Until, of course, we do what we’re really supposed to do—get a “real job,” find something “secure,” contribute “actual value” to society.
As if creating beauty, joy, and meaning isn’t valuable. As if the act of making something from nothing doesn’t matter. As if what we give the world from our hearts and hands is secondary.
Unfortunately, the world doesn’t always honor that. It can be ruthless. Unforgiving. And deeply uninterested in the things it can’t easily measure, monetize, or plug into a spreadsheet.
And listen—I get it. We live in uncertain times. Sometimes terrifying times. You look at the bills piling up, wonder how you’re going to pay for your kid’s braces, the mortgage, groceries, daycare, college tuition... and then you hear artists talking about how discouraged they are that no one is buying their work, and part of you thinks, “Seriously? We’re all just trying to survive right now.”
I understand that response. I really, really do. I’ve been there—doing the mental math, wondering what gets paid this week and what can wait. Art doesn’t always feel like a priority when you’re just trying to keep your head above water.
But here’s the thing: We need art.
Not as a luxury. Not as something extra. We need it the way we need deep breaths. The way we need beauty, comfort, expression, and connection when the world feels heavy.
Art reminds us we’re human. It gives us something to feel when we’re numb. It gives us color when life goes gray. It helps us grieve, hope, celebrate, remember, and dream.
Yes, we need to feed our families, keep the lights on, plan for the future. But we also need to feed our souls. And that’s what art does.
There’s a balance to be found—between survival and beauty, between security and soul. And in that balance, artists are not asking to be rescued. We're just asking not to be forgotten.
Why I Keep Going
Art reminds us we’re human.
It gives us something to feel when we’re numb. It gives us color when life goes gray. It helps us grieve, hope, celebrate, remember, and dream.
Let me tell you something that may or may not surprise you: I don’t do this for the money.
Anam Cara Clay Goods has yet to turn a profit. I haven’t quit my day job. I still get tired, overwhelmed, and filled with doubt.
And yet—this business, this calling, this work—has made my life fuller than I ever imagined.
Even in the slow seasons, even when I'm stretched thin, even when I wonder if I’m doing enough or reaching anyone at all—it has given me something sacred.
A place to tell my story. A place to create beauty, one pair of earrings at a time. A place where I’ve learned how to push through the noise and the pressure and just make, anyway.
It’s given me a voice. A path. A connection to something deeper—and to you.
And I will never stop. I will never stop honoring the call I’ve been given to create something beautiful and meaningful with my hands. Because I know, deep down, that someone—somewhere—will feel seen when they wear it. That matters more than numbers. That keeps me going.
Art has never been easy. Not now. Not ever. But it has always been a kind of magic. A kind of truth. It’s how we tell the world who we are. It’s how we reach each other across the noise. It’s how we survive—and thrive.
So if you’re in a place where it feels hard to keep going, if the metrics aren’t matching the effort, if the world makes you feel small: Just know—you’re not alone.