Did you know I rinse my wax castings in the bathtub?

It’s not something I ever thought I’d share publicly because it feels too revealing somehow. But it’s true. I don’t have a utility sink in the basement, so I carry the castings upstairs, through the house, and into the guest bathroom. Part of the studio is down there, part of it is tucked into the spare bedroom-turned-studio. It’s all a bit pieced together, but it works.

That’s what most people don’t see: how much of this work happens in the quiet, unseen corners of a normal life in a regular home.

I think people imagine jewelry-making as this serene, focused process in a sunlit studio with giant windows overlooking the mountains. And sometimes it is. 

But most of the time? 

It’s small messes that I know how to navigate. 

Tools where I left them. 

Wax scraps and sketchbooks and half-finished pieces living side-by-side with grocery lists. 

It’s making space for creativity without needing everything to be perfect first.

Some of my tools are from my brother. Some are decades old and worn to the shape of my hand. And some are just notebooks I’ve scribbled in at red lights or during school pickups. My hands are still the tool I trust the most.

The truth is, my process isn’t linear. It doesn’t perform well for time-lapses or tutorials. A design idea might live in a sketchbook for months before I touch it. Or sit in wax form on my bench for weeks or months until it feels ready to keep going. I used to fight that. Now I trust it.

This work is slow on purpose. It needs breath and margin. And sometimes, a bathtub.