11 Years of Whistle & Page: A Handmade Business Built with Heart, Clay, and Courage

On the 1st of September, Whistle & Page turns eleven.

And every time I say that out loud, I feel a lump in my throat.

Because this isn’t just a business anniversary.

It’s a marker of every version of me I’ve had to become — and unbecome — to get here.

I started Whistle & Page around the same time I became a mother.

To a beautiful, wide-eyed little babushka.

And also… to myself.

No one really tells you that when you become a parent, you’re also reparenting you.

That everything you thought you knew about your worth, your time, your body, your ambition, your boundaries — would be split wide open and examined under the harshest and softest light.

When I held my baby for the first time, I felt the world tilt.

But when I held clay for the first time — really held it — I felt myself return.

Whistle & Page was born in that hazy time when the days were long, the nights were longer, and I was stitching a new identity together with one hand, while the other stirred porridge or rocked a bassinet.

It wasn't strategic. It wasn't part of a 5-year plan.

It was survival. Then it became sanctuary. Then it became something I never thought I was allowed to have — a dream that belonged.

Back then, I didn’t have a studio. I had corners.

Little borrowed spaces at the edge of domestic chaos.

The dining table. A folding trestle.

The garage, where I whispered prayers to a second-hand kiln and held my breath with every firing.

I worked in stolen moments. Nap time. 4am.

Sometimes with a baby strapped to my chest, clay dust in my hair, and tears in my eyes — because I was so tired but also so alive.

And it wasn’t easy.

Not just because of the practical stuff — though that was hard enough.

It was the judgement.

The side eyes.

The family friends who’d say things like,

“Oh, that’s… cute.”

“You studied all that, and now you’re making pottery?”

“When will you go back to work?”

And the unspoken question beneath it all:

Why would you bet on yourself?

But I did.

Quietly, steadily, and with everything I had.

I bet on my hands.

On the power of small rituals and handmade moments.

On the idea that art could live in your kitchen, not just on gallery walls.

I stopped waiting for permission.

I decided that being good at something wasn’t a prerequisite for doing it with joy.

I gave myself the grace to learn.

To fail.

To unlearn the corporate scripts that told me value came from busyness and burnout.

And instead, I chose this.

A life made slowly, intentionally.

Piece by piece.

In clay.

In motherhood.

In self-trust.

Whistle & Page isn’t just a business.

It’s my memoir in functional form.

Every cup, every dish, every vase — it holds my story.

Not just the wins, but the moments I almost quit.

The late nights crying over cracked pieces.

The workshop where no one showed up.

The open studio where a single person came, bought nothing, but sat and shared her story and reminded me why this matters.

It holds the sacred, unglamorous truth of making something from scratch — with no roadmap, no safety net, and no guarantee.

But also — no regrets.

Over eleven years, I've seen women come to class holding more than clay.

They bring heartbreak. Hope. Rage. Relief.

They make with their whole bodies.

And they leave with something more than pottery.

They leave with a reminder that their hands still know how to create.

That’s what this business is built on.

Not algorithms. Not hustle culture.

But real connection.

Soul work.

A belief that the handmade holds healing.

To the ones who told me to play it safe — I hear you.

But I’m so glad I didn’t.

Because here I am.

Year eleven.

Still standing. Still making. Still showing my son what it looks like to live a creative life with courage and care.

And still learning — that the biggest work I will ever do is not the pottery.

It’s choosing, every day, to back myself.

To mother myself.

To believe that a slow, meaningful life is more than enough.

If you’ve been part of this journey — if you’ve held a mug, joined a class, sent a kind word, or simply cheered me on from afar — I cannot thank you enough.

You’ve helped shape this story.

You’ve helped build a business that holds soul at the centre.

And for that, I will always be grateful.

Here’s to year twelve — and all the courage it will ask of us.

Until next time,
Nawsheen, your friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.

P.S. If you’re reading this and you’re in the beginning of your own creative leap — feeling shaky, unsure, or wildly hopeful — I see you.

You’re not too late.

You’re not silly.

You’re allowed to want something different.

Back yourself.

The world needs what only you can make.