Happy New Year: Finding Purpose

I won’t pretend that 2025 wasn't a hard year for the studio—and for me personally.

Whenever I asked others how their year had been, the answer was almost always the same: “Not really great.” Different fields, different lives, but a shared sense that we were all pushing uphill.

Running a glass studio—especially one built on education, access, and community—means carrying a lot at once. Energy costs, materials, people’s livelihoods, students’ expectations, artists’ dreams, funding structures that move slowly while bills do not.

In 2025, there were moments when every decision felt heavy, when simply keeping the doors open required more creativity than making the glass itself. There were long stretches of conscious restraint: not expanding when it would have been tempting, not promising what couldn’t be sustained, and learning—sometimes the hard way—that saying no is also a form of care. For the studio. For the team. For the mission.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I came across a small meme about the Chinese New Year: the Year of the Snake versus the Year of the Horse. The snake sheds its skin. Slowly. Intentionally. It doesn’t rush. The horse, on the other hand, takes off—it runs.

That image stuck with me because 2025 was definitely a snake year. A year of shedding: outdated systems, unrealistic expectations, habits that once worked but no longer fit the reality we are in. We let go of things we loved but couldn’t carry anymore. We tightened structures, clarified roles, and made difficult decisions so the studio could remain not just open—but honest.

This process wasn’t glamorous. It was deliberate, often quiet, and sometimes lonely. But it led to something important: a deeper commitment to conscious management. To running the studio in a way that respects the craft’s long history while acknowledging today’s constraints. To valuing sustainability over speed, and depth over noise.

Glassmaking has always taught patience. You can’t rush the process. You can’t force form; and you certainly can’t build something meant to last by cutting corners. 2025 reminded me of that—over and over again.

So yes, I deeply hope this is the year the horse runs. That momentum replaces constant testing. That the groundwork we laid—carefully, responsibly—allows us to move forward with strength and confidence. But if 2025 taught me anything, it’s this: shedding is not stagnation. It’s preparation, and when movement comes, it will be rooted, intentional, and built to endure.

The doors are open, and we are ready—not just to move fast, but to move well. Happy New Year, everyone!