If you’d told teenage me that one day my love of gritty old textiles would lead me down so many different professional paths, I wouldn’t have believed you. And then to tell me that I was going to become a full time potter and textile artist? No f*ing way. But here I am at 41, looking at my newest pottery collection in development, planning my next season of marbling work and clearly seeing the choices younger me made and my love for fabric woven into everything I now create. Looking back at it all is serving as a reminder that creativity isn’t linear—each step leads to the next, even when the path feels unclear or uncertain.

My love for textiles started early and well before I knew it was about the fabric. As a teenager in Seattle, I would scavenge for treasure—dumpster diving behind garment warehouses, picking up piles of soggy clothing on the side of the road or sifting through Goodwill bins for overlooked gems. I always had a pair of gloves in my pocket so I never had to miss out on a good find by the potential ick factor that came with scavenging. I would mend, dye, and reimagine these scraps, turning them into something new to sell at yard sales or on the sidewalk. One time that I’ll never forget was coming across a discarded box (goldmine) of old striped sailors tank tops that had been dumped behind a military store, I dyed them with tea bags and sewed ruffles around them for a rather questionable shipwrecked doll look. I mean, we all start somewhere, right?? They sold pretty quickly in Pioneer Square, I set up outside of a goth bar with a box of these weird tank tops and sold them to the girls hanging out. It was the 90’s, and this felt like living the dream. It wasn’t about making money (because, let’s be real, the money wasn’t good); it was about seeing potential in forgotten things and breathing new life into them while being a grungy kid in 90’s Seattle.

Now this is a big jump. Somehow, that scrappy grunge energy eventually led me to explore textiles more formally, and I found myself working in high-end boutiques. Surrounded by gorgeous fabrics, I soaked up everything I could about their construction and history. I’d study the weave, dyes, and even the beading techniques used to create them. Selling clothes was secondary to understanding their stories. The obsession I had with the materials themselves laid a foundation I didn’t fully understand until much later.

At some point, I fell into spinning and dyeing yarn, which I briefly sold on Etsy. From there, I found a real love for knitting—first by hand, then on a knitting machine I inherited from a local artist. A very patient knitter hired me on to help with finishing work and then slowly began to trust me with light production work. That professional opportunity and learning to work with knitting machines opened a new chapter for me. After some time, I branched out on my own and started creating textured, heavily patterned scarves and hats, eventually running my own business full-time at Pike Place Market.

Selling at Pike Place was life-changing. I was financially independent, constantly honing my craft, and surrounded by the buzz of market life. But the reality of running a production business was, to be honest, miserable. My body ached from the physical demands of the knitting machines, and I couldn’t afford to take even a single day off due to the rising cost of living in Seattle. It was “successful”, but it wasn’t sustainable. Looking back, I can’t believe how many individual items I knit and sold. There are a lot of things I would have done differently here, but I’m so happy I had this experience as it has helped guide me and taught me an awful lot of lessons.

On what felt like a whim, my husband and I decided to leave Seattle. We sold our home in 2019, packed up our lives, and drove across the country to Savannah, Georgia. The slower pace, lower cost of living, and fresh start were calling to us and exactly what we wanted for this next phase in our lives. But starting over wasn’t easy. There were a few big failures, some cultural adjustments, and way too many moments where I wondered if I’d made the right decision.

For the first several years in Savannah, I felt stuck and unbelievably lost. I struggled to find a studio, couldn’t seem to find “my people”, and felt over all mediocre as an artist. I believed I had to stick with textiles because that’s how people knew me and frankly, it’s all I really knew about myself. I struggled through it for a while. It was an uncomfortable time, but I’m proud of how I grew my marbling skills during those years. When I finally started fussing with clay, it was like a lightbulb moment—'oh my god, what have I been missing my whole life?' For the first time in years, I felt really excited to learn and experiment. I had been pretty public about my struggles creatively and I had tried quite a few different avenues in the fibers world, but I knew from the first pottery class that I wanted to work with this medium. A few close acquaintances told me it was confusing to my customers to incorporate a new medium into my work. Their words lingered, planting seeds of doubt that were hard to shake. Because of this, I think it took me a longer time to find my artistic voice and to find a sense of freedom in the studio.

However, the more I worked with clay, the more I saw connections to my textile background which made it feel safe and familiar. The swirling patterns in marbled clay reminded me of rinsing the dye out of wet fabric. My colorful inlay patterns on fresh clay slabs felt similar to the fair isle knitting designs I used to sketch out. The organic flow from start to finish felt deeply reminiscent to the energy I get at the marbling tank. The tactile nature of working with clay echoed the satisfaction of weaving, knitting, and even marbling. Even when others couldn’t see the lines I was drawing between the two mediums, I never lost sight of them.

I’ve spent years merging the story of fabric into my pottery, letting one medium inform the other. It hasn’t all been smooth—I’ve made plenty of missteps along the way—but each experiment has brought me closer to where I need (and wanted) to be.

Something incredible happened in December of last year. I don’t actually know how to describe it, but everything clicked. I felt like I’d found my voice in the studio. I let go of the fear of what people thought about my work or my process. I stopped trying to fit into a single medium or style and just let the workflow. And in that freedom, I formed a deeper connection to my pottery. Whatever that shift was, it has me absolutely buzzing with excitement for this year and the collections I’m launching.

I guess I wanted all of this is here not only to share a little bit of insight into my own path, but also in the hopes that it could inspire other artists to tune out the noise and follow the threads. You never know where your path will lead. If I’d stayed in my comfort zone or listened to naysayers, I wouldn’t be here—settling into my story, creating work that feels personal, and finally finding real joy in the process. Each step, even the miserable ones, have been part of the journey. I’m glad I said yes to new opportunities and followed the winding path of my curiosity.

Embracing the process,

Mia