"Rushing Less, Living More: My Path to Patience Through Cancer and Pottery"

Rushing Less, Living More: My Path to Patience Through Cancer and Pottery

Patience.
Noun: the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, trouble, or suffering without getting angry or upset.

It’s funny how much weight that word carries. “Patience.” Something I’ve never naturally possessed. I’ve always been someone who, once I decide I want something—a new purchase, a trip, an experience—I want it immediately. The whole idea of “waiting” seems unnecessary, almost a roadblock. And why wait when you can just make things happen, right?

That mindset didn’t always mesh well with my marriage. We couldn’t agree on much—let alone make decisions quickly. Everything felt like a drawn-out negotiation. Something simple like buying towels? An ordeal. Picking out paint colors? Forget it. It’s no surprise that we rarely got anything done. But that’s a whole other Oprah story, as they say.

After my divorce, I finally experienced the relief of making decisions on my own terms. It felt liberating. The first project I tackled was finishing my basement, a task that had been on hold for way too long. And let me tell you—it was so easy. I picked out the flooring in minutes, didn’t have to consult anyone on paint colors, and I even bought a couch online without ever sitting on it. (Okay, in hindsight, not the most logical move, but it turned out to be a great couch!). The whole thing was done in record time. Bing, bang, boom. Finished. And I loved it. The best part? I did it all myself.

That experience reinforced my belief in action and decisiveness. It felt good to move fast and make things happen. But as I’ve come to learn, not everything in life moves that quickly—and sometimes, things that take time are worth the wait. Well, I’m still learning this.

I first really had to learn patience after my cancer diagnosis. They say the hardest part of cancer isn’t always the treatment—it’s the beginning. The endless tests, the waiting, the uncertainty. Those days were some of the longest of my life. Aimlessly wondering. Moving from one room to another and just standing there, unable to function while I waited… for more tests, more results, trying to prepare for something that’s impossible to fully prepare for. I had no control and no way to speed things up. It was torture. But the reality was, I had no choice. I had to wait. I had to let things unfold in their own time, and that was a lesson I wasn’t ready for.

Even after the diagnosis, patience kept rearing its head. Healing takes time, no matter how badly you want to fast-forward through it. I remember hearing doctors say, “Three weeks to heal.” Then another three weeks. And then—three more weeks. Everything was in stages, stretched out farther than I’d imagined. My body had its own timeline and there was no way to rush it. Radiation didn’t help, either.

But it’s not just cancer that taught me this lesson—it’s been pottery too. Working with clay has been my therapeutic outlet, and it’s one area of my life where impatience is not an option. Clay has its own pace, and if you try to rush it, you’ll end up frustrated. The clay teaches you that there are moments when you just have to slow down and let things happen naturally. If it’s too wet, it won’t hold its shape. If it’s too dry, it’ll crack. You have to find the right balance, and that requires time and practice. There’s no shortcut. Believe me, I’ve tried more times than I care to admit.

I’m learning that patience isn’t just about waiting—it’s about respecting the process. Whether it’s healing from an illness, navigating a personal journey, or shaping a lump of clay, you can’t always force things to go faster. Sometimes the very act of slowing down, of giving things time to develop, leads to the best outcome.

Ironically, the things that require patience are often the things that end up being the most meaningful. The basement project, the cancer journey, my ceramics—all of them have taught me that patience isn’t about passively sitting around. It’s about being actively engaged in the waiting, in the process of becoming. It’s a balance between effort and surrender, knowing when to push forward and when to simply let time do its work.

So now, when I’m in my studio working with clay, I’m reminded of how much my perspective has shifted. Where I once thrived on getting things done fast, I’m learning to appreciate the slow, deliberate pace of some parts of life. I’m learning that not everything is meant to be rushed. And honestly, the results are often better when you take the time to let things unfold in their own way.

Patience may not have been something I was born with, but it’s something I’m learning— every single day.