The Magic I Was Looking for

As a kid, I was convinced I was meant to have magical powers. I practiced casting spells alone in my bathtub, sure that if I concentrated hard enough — whispered the words just right — a shampoo bottle would finally stir. I desperately waited for my invitation to a school of magic that I was sure existed and that I belonged at. Spoiler – It never came.

Years later, I discovered something else.

I had just finished a creation of some sort — I can’t even remember what or who, exactly now. Some odd little thing built from scraps and thread and glue. When I stepped back from it, something clicked. There, in front of me, was proof: I had summoned something. Not with a wand, but with my hands. From nothing, I had conjured something. A someone.

That was the moment I understood: this was my magic.

And it still is.

Making by hand isn’t just a method — it’s a spell. A quiet one. The hours I spend sculpting, sewing, shaping… they’re not just tasks. They’re a kind of devotion. A secret language spoken in thread and wire and time. As each piece forms, I fall a little in love with it. I watch it come alive — slowly, awkwardly, beautifully. It starts to breathe in its own strange way.

That kind of life — soulful, imperfect, tender — doesn’t come from clicking and undoing and rendering. It comes from being with something. Struggling through it. Getting it wrong, then getting it right enough to feel true. It’s not about precision. It’s about presence.

And I think that’s what people see in my work. Not polish. Not perfection. But heart. A flicker of spirit. A sense that something is there — watching you back. Maybe a little mischievous. Maybe a little haunted. But undeniably alive.

That’s why I make things by hand.

Because I never really gave up on magic. I learned how to make my own.