I Don’t Make a Living from My Jewelry Business

This is the truth.

Since I started Anam Cara Clay Goods in 2022, I haven't turned a profit. That's the whole truth, and I've wanted to say it out loud for a while. Not for sympathy. Not for applause. Just because I think someone reading this might need to hear it.

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 grew up watching my dad live this exact tension. He was a full-time artist — deeply talented, genuinely committed, the kind of person who couldn't imagine doing anything else. But it was hard. We weren't wealthy. My parents sacrificed a lot so he could keep making things. Some months the work didn't pay the bills. It wasn't glamorous and it wasn't easy, but I watched him build a life around creating anyway.

I'm here now, decades later, walking something close to the same path. I have a full-time job I love and am grateful for. But Anam Cara Clay Goods is not a side gig. It's not something I pick up when I have a free afternoon. It lives in my bones. It takes up my evenings, my weekends, my worry, and my deepest joy. It just doesn't — yet — pay for itself.

And I've decided that's okay to say.

The heartbreaking reality.

This year I've watched so many polymer clay artists and handmade small businesses quietly close their doors. That's the word for it — quietly. One day they're posting joyful photos of a new collection. The next, their account goes silent. A short goodbye note. A message about stepping away. No headlines, no fanfare. Just another creative voice fading from the feed.

It breaks my heart every time.

Not because they weren't talented — they are. Not because they didn't care — they care deeply. But because passion alone can't always hold up against burnout, financial strain, changing algorithms, and the constant pressure to produce more, post more, sell more. These are people who stayed up late perfecting designs, who balanced day jobs and family and still showed up at markets with handmade goods and genuine hope. And the support didn't always meet the need.

I've felt that pull too. The quiet voice that asks: Is this sustainable? Is anyone listening? Does this actually matter?

I keep answering yes. But I understand why some people can't anymore.

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.

Here's what keeps me going…

And it isn’t the revenue numbers.

Anam Cara has given me a place to tell my story. A practice that asks me to slow down and be present when everything else is moving fast. A community — you — that shows up in ways I didn't expect and couldn't have planned. And the knowledge, bone-deep, that somewhere out there a person is going to put on something I made and feel a little more like themselves. That's not nothing. That's actually the whole point.

I also keep coming back to what I watched my dad do. He didn't quit. He kept making things. He understood that art isn't a luxury you earn after everything else is handled — it's how some of us make sense of being alive. It's how we process, connect, celebrate, grieve, and find our way back to ourselves when the world gets heavy.

The world doesn't always reward that. It can be genuinely ruthless about it. But the need for beauty and meaning doesn't go away just because times are hard — if anything, it gets louder.

So I’m not stopping.

Even in the slow seasons, even when I'm stretched thin and wondering if I'm reaching anyone at all, I keep showing up at my studio table. Not because the math works out, but because the work is real and the community is real and something I can't quite name tells me this is exactly where I'm supposed to be.

If you're another maker reading this — if you're in the in-between, holding a creative life in one hand and a day job in the other and wondering if it counts — it counts. You're not less of an artist because you haven't quit your job yet. You're not failing because the numbers don't add up yet. You're just doing it honestly, the way most of us actually do it.

I’d love to know…

If you're a fellow maker or creative, what keeps you going when it's hard? Drop a comment or come find me on Instagram — I genuinely want to hear it.