2025 began in chaos - career, relationship, and life shifting all at once, some intentionally, some unexpectedly. The changes were unsettling, but perhaps necessary. Everything unravelling cleared space for what I had already committed to at the end of 2024 - to work on myself and rebuild a stronger version of me.

This is my imperfect journey, reflected in this small, deeply personal collection of very imperfect ceramics. Thank you for being part of it.

Spring came softly over the past months.
Then, all at once.
And this time, I bloomed for myself.

Available at the Makers' Market at School of the Arts (SOTA) happening 16 to 18 May 2025, and on imohclay.com from 19 May 2025.

Creating spring

Free Child
These five pieces were created during a tender chapter of my healing journey, at a time where I started to process more than three decades of memories in therapy, tracing the roots of my patterns and learned coping mechanisms.

One day, in a random conversation at a bus stop, someone described herself as afree child. Something about those words stopped me. They clicked. I remember thinking quietly to myself:I want to know what that feels like.So, I created and painted like a child with colours I'd usually avoid - bright, bold, and almost naive. Each mark is a small defiance against the times I had to shrink or be careful. These five pieces are not just decorative, they are glimpses of what I wished I had, and what I am now learning I can still have - moments of being free to play, and to reclaim joy.

My Grief
For years, I've been searching for a safe space, a space where my emotions could be felt, witnessed, and honoured fully. I knew I was searching for it, but if you asked me to describe it clearly, I'm not sure I could. When I've never consistently known what safety feels like, especially the kind that truly honours emotions, it's easy to mistake familarity for safety.

Sometimes, what's familiar is just an inconsistent promise of safety. A space offered only when certain unspoken, shifting conditions are met. That inconsistency becomes addictive. I begin to chase it, hoping that this time, it might last. And slowly, it keeps me stuck in an unhealthy connection.

I might look all white and fine on the outside, but within, I'm crackling, perhaps stained by the emotional and physical hurt I've to carry. These four pieces hold that tension. I now want to feel every emotion that arises, and know that each one can be witnessed and honoured.

Here Comes The Sun
January 2025 was confusing and chaotic. Things I thought would never change shifted all at once. It felt like life had thrown me into a storm, forcing me to start over in nearly every part of my life. Starting over in almost everything during this chapter of life felt unsettling.

I remember being hit by waves of conflicting emotions - anxiety, grief, helplessness, but also a strange sense of relief and excitment.

During that time, I found a cafe at Chinatown, their wi-fi password isHere Comes The Sun, and I'd sit for hours to process my thoughts. Towards the end of January, I realised during one of those days that maybe what I really needed was to sit with the chaos, to trust the process, and to believe that somehow, it will all make sense someday.

Spring
Everything unravelling at the start of the year cleared space for what I had already committed to at the end of 2024 - to work on myself. In less than five months, I didn't just rebuild to who I was in early 2024, I built a stronger version of myself. Someone who can honour his own hurt and pain. Someone who's learning to name his emotions, speak them, and sit with them.

Processing what happened isn't the end. Processing the meaning behind what happened isn't the end either. Even tracing patterns and learned coping mechanisms is not the end. These are just steps in the journey I committed to.

Spring came softly over the past months.
Then, all at once.
And this time, I bloomed for myself.

Smaller Than Small
For a long time, I made myself smaller than small, shrinking my needs, softening my voice, downplaying my presence, and staying silent when I should have stood up for myself. In doing so, I slowly chipped away at the version of me I hoped to become.

Making myself small didn't protect me. It only disconnected me from myself. Between staying silent and learning to speak, I'm discovering that I don't have to be smaller than I am.

I crave consistent safety, in the spaces I’m in and the relationships I hold. A safe space is one where what’s hard can be met with care consistently. Where what’s messy can be felt, seen, and honoured without fear consistently. Where I can exist without having to shrink myself. I don't want to be smaller than small anymore.

To The Surface
Over the past few months, I've allowed my therapy sessions to go where they needed to go. That has meant returning to old memories, revisiting buried feelings, and sitting with pain I had once pushed away.

Now, what was once held deep inside is coming to the surface. Memories come to be as as vivid flashbacks, sometimes as dreams, sometimes as emotions I can’t quite name.

It can feel heavy when the past surfaces. But in bringing it out, I’m learning that healing often begins when what’s inside is finally seen.

Slow Mornings
In April, I got the opportunity be in nature, within a valley, beside a stream, in a naturally ventilated room. I woke up naturally to the sound of nature, to the warmth of the sun peaking into the room, while it begun to paint the sky in a warm peach hue before a bright and comforting yellow took over.

Maybe we don’t always have to understand everything right away. Maybe meaning reveals itself only in its own time. Or maybe, sometimes, it doesn’t need to be named at all.

And maybe nature is the other therapist. Maybe this is what nature has always done, heal what we could never quite name ourselves.

Damaged
There was a time I believed I'm not enough, damaged, unwanted, and unworthy. I carried those beliefs for so long, mistaking my sensitivity for weakness, and my woudns for flaws.

Healing has shown me otherwise. The uneven parts, the quiet cracks, the shifts, they're not things to be erased but things to be seen. Maybe healing isn't about becoming perfect. Maybe it's about learning to be held, just as we are.

Maybe, we were never damaged, just waiting to be understood differently.