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shelfadmirer 's review for:
The Healing Season of Pottery
by Yeon Somin
There’s something achingly familiar about Jungmin’s story. A year of hiding after betrayal, the kind that doesn’t just wound your career but fractures your ability to trust your own judgment. When she finally emerges~driven by a scream that seems to come from somewhere deeper than frustration, and stumbles into Soyo Pottery thinking it’s a coffee shop, you can’t help but root for this beautiful mistake.
Yeon Somin understands that healing isn’t a destination but a practice. Watching Jungmin’s hands learn to center clay on the wheel mirrors her own journey toward emotional equilibrium. The pottery lessons become a form of therapy she didn’t know she needed, each session peeling back layers of hurt while building something new.
What makes this novel resonate is its honesty about the messiness of recovery. Jungmin doesn’t transform overnight. She adopts a kitten, reconnects with old wounds through familiar faces, and slowly allows herself to be seen by someone who understands her creative soul. These moments feel lived-in rather than manufactured, capturing the tentative hope of someone learning to trust again.
The deliberate pacing reflects real healing—frustratingly slow but beautifully authentic. Somin writes with the patience of someone who knows that meaningful change takes time. However, several secondary characters disappear without proper resolution, leaving emotional threads dangling in ways that feel careless rather than intentional.
Despite this structural flaw, The Healing Season of Pottery offers something rare: a story that holds space for both pain and possibility. It’s a gentle reminder that sometimes the most profound healing happens not through grand gestures but through the simple act of showing up, day after day, hands willing to shape something beautiful from what remains.
Yeon Somin understands that healing isn’t a destination but a practice. Watching Jungmin’s hands learn to center clay on the wheel mirrors her own journey toward emotional equilibrium. The pottery lessons become a form of therapy she didn’t know she needed, each session peeling back layers of hurt while building something new.
What makes this novel resonate is its honesty about the messiness of recovery. Jungmin doesn’t transform overnight. She adopts a kitten, reconnects with old wounds through familiar faces, and slowly allows herself to be seen by someone who understands her creative soul. These moments feel lived-in rather than manufactured, capturing the tentative hope of someone learning to trust again.
The deliberate pacing reflects real healing—frustratingly slow but beautifully authentic. Somin writes with the patience of someone who knows that meaningful change takes time. However, several secondary characters disappear without proper resolution, leaving emotional threads dangling in ways that feel careless rather than intentional.
Despite this structural flaw, The Healing Season of Pottery offers something rare: a story that holds space for both pain and possibility. It’s a gentle reminder that sometimes the most profound healing happens not through grand gestures but through the simple act of showing up, day after day, hands willing to shape something beautiful from what remains.