Why I Create Ceramics?

Everyone has a story about how they first started working with ceramics. Of course, I have one too—a humorous tale I’ve told countless times. But what I want to share here is different: the truth that lies beyond those amusing anecdotes.

For most of my life, I lived with a deep misunderstanding—about myself and the world around me. One of the most impactful moments came during a competitive exam in third grade. Two students from my class were selected to take it, and I was one of them. The questions were challenging, and I walked away utterly convinced of my below-average intelligence. That single belief shaped the rest of my education. I stopped trying. I gave up studying and instead dedicated my efforts to the art of creatively cheating.

That same year, my father gave me a notebook. It was covered in yellow fabric, its pages pale blue with white clouds scattered across them. I began writing poetry. Most of it was simple—pastoral themes and clichéd rhymes, just like what you’d find in schoolbooks. I can’t even recall much of what I wrote, only that I couldn’t stop writing. That notebook filled up, and others followed—journals I wrote in the mountains, on the road, or whenever inspiration struck. Stories, tales, ideas—they were always spinning in my mind.

With heartfelt determination, I chose to study literature in high school, one of the few students who willingly pursued that path. At university, I majored in American Literature. But it wasn’t what I’d envisioned. Before delving into American works, we had to master European literature, and the curriculum also included American and European history and geography—subjects I had little interest in. Meanwhile, echoes of an old belief resurfaced: “You’re a literature major, so you must be foolish.” I was hurt, but not surprised. After all, I’d etched this “I’m not smart enough” narrative into my subconscious after that third-grade exam.

Instead of confronting my internalized thoughts, I lashed out at anyone who reminded me of them. The most notable was my first boyfriend, whose dismissive comments stung deeply. Between his insults, my own self-doubt, and my attempts to write short stories and poetry, the relationship unraveled. When it ended, amidst the tears and drama, he told me something that stuck:

“I see you living in a house with a mountain view, sitting on a balcony with your typewriter and coffee, writing away.”

Inwardly, I vowed, “I will never write because you said that. That will never happen!”

Years later, I moved into a house just like the one he described, with a narrow balcony overlooking Babadağ. But I didn’t write. I didn’t write because he had said it. I didn’t write because my essence, my truth, felt unwelcome in the world. I didn’t write out of fear that I’d once again be dismissed as “that silly literature girl.” Instead, I burned all the notebooks I’d filled over the years, hoping to erase the past.

But life has a way of catching you. No matter how much I tried to avoid writing, it found me. I wrote plays when I directed theater, copy when it was needed for advertising—always reluctant, yet always returning to words.

Twelve years ago, ceramics entered my life. I progressed quickly, almost inexplicably. Then, I discovered something remarkable: a branch of my family, exiled from Iznik generations ago, had been making ceramics there for centuries. Like them, I had turned to the earth to ground myself, to create something when I felt I couldn’t exist as I truly was. Unlike them, my obstacles were internal, born from my own belief that I wasn’t enough.

This is the truth of why I create ceramics. It’s the only place where I feel accepted as myself. It’s the only medium where I can simply be.

And yet, ceramics brought me back to writing. Social media posts turned into essays, and the earth itself began teaching me what to say. For the first time, people were reading and listening.

Everyone has one true love in life. For me, it’s storytelling. To deny it—whether through writing, ceramics, or another form—would be to reject the gifts this love has shown me. People may not accept me as I am, but I’ve followed their expectations far enough, only to return to myself. Love finds a way to make you speak the truths you’re meant to share.

For me, that way is through clay. And what a beautiful way it is.