I've Always Been a Teacher
It feels like I've shared a piece of myself with someone, and they took it and made something beautiful that is completely theirs.
Before I was a jewelry maker, I was a lot of things.
A chef for over fifteen years, mentoring cooks in a professional kitchen. A dance teacher for most of my twenties and thirties, sharing something I loved and watching students find their own relationship to it. An arts and crafts director at a girls' summer camp. A substitute teacher in college.
In every single one of those lives, I was teaching.
Not always with that title. Not always in a classroom. But always finding ways to share what I knew with someone who wanted to learn it — and always caring deeply about whether it landed. I have been, in one form or another, a teacher for my entire adult life.
So when I started Anam Cara Clay Goods, offering workshops was never really a question. It was just the next chapter of something I've always done.
I've been teaching polymer clay jewelry workshops for three years now.
Most classes are small and intimate — which is exactly how I like it. When there are only a handful of people in the room, I can actually see what each person is doing. I can notice when someone is frustrated before they say anything. I can find the way to help them get to the thing they're trying to make — the thing that feels like them — rather than giving everyone the same generic instruction and hoping for the best.
That's the part I love most. Not the teaching in the abstract, but the specific, individual moment when someone figures something out. When the clay starts doing what they wanted it to do and their whole energy shifts.
When I see a student hold up something they just made — really look at it, really see it — there's a feeling I get that I can't quite describe any other way except this: it feels like I've shared a piece of myself with someone, and they took it and made something beautiful that is completely theirs.
That's what teaching is, at its best. That's why I keep doing it.
I won't pretend it's all effortless.
There's real work that happens before anyone walks through the door — the prep, the supplies, making sure I have every tool I need, thinking through the flow of the class so it doesn't run away from me. And I still get nervous. Every time. Standing in front of people and talking is not something that ever fully stops being a little terrifying.
But I've learned something about myself over years of teaching: when I'm talking about something I love, something I know deeply, the nerves don't disappear but they shift into something else. A confidence that comes from genuine knowledge and genuine care. When the subject is polymer clay and color and the way a piece of jewelry can make a woman feel like herself — I know that territory. I can find my footing there even when my hands are a little shaky at the start.
I'll be honest about something else too.
Last year, a few of my classes were cancelled due to low enrollment. Not enough interest to run them. That stings — I won't pretend it doesn't. You put real work into planning something, you get excited about it, and then it doesn't come together. That's a hard part of this business that doesn't get talked about enough.
But I also know that it's a tough market and these are genuinely difficult times for a lot of people. An optional creative workshop is one of the first things to go when budgets get tight. That's not a reflection of the value of what I'm offering. It's just reality.
So I'm heading into this new season of workshops with clear eyes and real hope. Not naive optimism — actual hope, the kind that has already seen disappointment and decided to keep going anyway. I'm not sure exactly what to expect. But I'm ready.
If you've been curious about trying polymer clay…
About learning to make something with your own hands, about spending a few hours in a room with other creative women making something beautiful — I'd love to have you.
The workshops are small, intentional, and taught by someone who has been finding ways to share the things she loves for her entire adult life. You don't need experience. You don't need to know what you're doing. You just need to show up.
I'll take care of the rest.