A few years ago, I sat down at a pottery wheel for the first time and quickly discovered that clay did not care about my resume.

The clay did not care that I had spent decades in higher education leadership, served as a provost, launched new academic programs, written books, or taught leadership to doctoral students. It certainly did not care that I had spent years interviewing college presidents and studying what makes leaders effective.

The clay had its own agenda.

“One of my early attempts at throwing a bowl. The clay taught humility long before it taught technique.”

My first attempts at throwing a bowl were humbling. The clay wobbled beneath my hands. The walls collapsed. What looked promising one moment became an unrecognizable lump the next. Across the studio, more experienced potters seemed to center their clay effortlessly while I struggled simply to keep mine from flying off the wheel.

I drove home more than once wondering whether I would ever get the hang of it.

And yet, I kept coming back.

Part of the attraction was creative. After years spent in meetings, on Zoom calls, writing reports, and solving organizational problems, there was something deeply satisfying about making an object with my hands. But over time I realized there was something else drawing me back to the studio. The lessons I was learning there felt surprisingly familiar.

For much of my professional life, people came to me because I was expected to have answers. In the pottery studio, nobody expects that. I am simply another learner.

That has turned out to be a gift.

I do not think we talk enough about the value of becoming a beginner again, especially later in life. Higher education rewards expertise. We spend years building knowledge, refining our judgment, and developing professional credibility. Those things matter. But expertise has a shadow side. If we are not careful, confidence can slowly become certainty.

Clay is remarkably effective at challenging certainty.

Just when I think I have figured something out, the clay reminds me otherwise. A bowl that looked beautiful on the wheel develops a crack while drying. A glaze combination I loved last month produces a completely different result this month. Sometimes I find myself staring at a finished piece wondering what exactly happened between intention and outcome.

“Not every piece survives the process. Some of the most important lessons came from those that didn’t.”

The experience has made me appreciate something I have observed in the best leaders I have known. Their strength was never simply what they knew. It was their willingness to keep learning long after they could have relied on what they already knew.

The studio has also heightened my awareness of how interconnected things really are.

A crack that appears after firing often began weeks earlier. Maybe the walls were uneven. Maybe the piece dried too quickly. Maybe I rushed a step that seemed insignificant at the time. What appears to be a problem at the end is often the visible consequence of something that happened much earlier in the process.

“Long before a flaw appears in the kiln, its roots often lie earlier in the process.”

I find myself thinking about that whenever conversations in higher education focus on solving a single problem in isolation.

Student success, for example, is connected to far more than academic performance. It is connected to financial aid, belonging, advising, course scheduling, faculty engagement, mental health support, and countless other factors. Like a ceramic piece moving through the stages of creation, institutions are systems of relationships. Pull on one thread and something else moves.

One of my recurring struggles in ceramics is patience.

When I finish throwing a piece that I am excited about, I want to keep moving. I want to trim it. Glaze it. Fire it. See the final result.

The clay has repeatedly informed me that this is not how things work.

“The simplest forms often require the most thoughtful design.”

If I rush the process, the consequences usually appear later. The clay dries unevenly. A handle separates. A crack emerges where none existed before.

At this stage of my life, I am beginning to think patience may be one of the most underrated leadership qualities.

Many of the accomplishments I am proudest of took years to unfold. New academic programs required sustained effort long before they generated enrollment. Organizational culture shifts happened gradually, often so gradually that they were difficult to see while they were occurring. Even the development of future leaders happened one conversation, one opportunity, one experience at a time.

Clay reminds me that meaningful transformation has its own timetable.

One of my favorite pieces is a mug that most people would probably overlook.

The shape is simple. The glaze is understated. But whenever I pick it up, I remember how much thought went into making it. The curve of the handle. The thickness of the walls. The balance in the hand. What appears effortless actually reflects dozens of small decisions.

That realization has reinforced something I have long believed about leadership.

The most effective leaders are often not the most visible people in the room. They are the people quietly creating the conditions that allow others to flourish. They design environments where students can succeed, faculty can thrive, and teams can do meaningful work together.

Good design often goes unnoticed because it feels natural.

So does good leadership.

Perhaps my favorite moment in ceramics is opening the kiln.

“Opening the kiln never gets old. It remains equal parts anticipation, excitement, and uncertainty.”

It is also the moment that makes me the most nervous.

Even after all the planning and preparation, there is still uncertainty. Glazes interact in ways I did not anticipate. Colors emerge that were invisible beforehand. Sometimes a piece disappoints me. Occasionally a piece surprises me in the best possible way.

A few weeks ago, I opened the kiln and discovered a bowl I had almost forgotten about. Along the rim, the glaze had broken into subtle variations of color that I never could have intentionally created. Part of what made the piece beautiful was precisely the fact that I had not controlled every aspect of its outcome.

As I turned it over in my hands, I found myself thinking about leadership once again.

Some of the most meaningful accomplishments of my career have unfolded in much the same way. Programs evolved beyond their original vision. Students exceeded expectations. Colleagues created possibilities that emerged not from my direction but from their own creativity and talent.

There comes a point in both pottery and leadership when control gives way to trust.

We do the work. We prepare carefully. We shape what we can shape. Then we let go.

That may be the deepest lesson clay has taught me.

Not everything valuable can be engineered. Not every outcome can be predicted. Some of the best things emerge from the interaction between intention and uncertainty.

“Some of the most beautiful outcomes emerge from a partnership between intention and uncertainty.”

I still have much to learn about ceramics.

The same is true of leadership.

That is probably why I keep returning to the studio. Each time I sit down at the wheel, hands covered in clay, I learn something new. Sometimes it is about pottery. Sometimes it is about leadership. More often, it is about the humility required to keep learning long after you thought you knew what you were doing.

Dr. Melissa Morriss-Olson is a distinguished leader in higher education with over 35 years of experience shaping innovation and fostering institutional excellence. Currently leading the launch of The American University of Greece Global Campus, she is also Distinguished Professor of Higher Education Leadership at Bay Path University. During her tenure as Provost, she launched over 40 academic programs and secured over $6 million in grant funding. She is the author of several influential works, including IngenioUs Leadership: Creating Solutions to Wicked Problems in Higher Education.