I've had a rough few weeks. Chronic neck and nerve pain that's been worsening over the last three months—the kind that wakes you up at night and makes you move through the day like you're borrowing time from yourself.
But pain has a funny way of clarifying what matters. When you can only do a little, you start to care a lot more about what that little is. I promised myself I wouldn't let my making or my writing go stale—so I didn't. Here's what I managed, one slow day at a time.
The Printer Never Stopped
Following up on The Maker Box, the printer has barely cooled down. There's something quietly therapeutic about queueing up a print before bed and waking up to a finished object—something that didn't exist yesterday, sitting on the build plate, waiting for you. Each of these I downloaded for free and printed with default settings. We only chose the color.
The Makeup Organizer
For a bigger-scope project, I wanted to make a makeup organizer for my wife. I found a design I liked, she approved, and I paid to download the model for the first time ever—a whopping one dollar. It required three separate, very large parts and printed non-stop over four days.
Before printing the final piece, I got the idea to emboss her name in Farsi on one of the walls—exactly matching a tattoo I have. It's a small detail, but it turned a useful print into something personal. Those are the touches that make making feel like more than manufacturing.
ESP32: Small Steps Forward
Not every project moves fast, and that's okay. On the ESP32 side, I've moved both boards and their components from breadboard to perfboard—a step closer to soldering, which I'm still building the confidence (and the steady hands) to do. My left arm hasn't cooperated, so for now the boards are pinned and waiting. Sometimes progress is just getting things ready for the day you can.
Mulberry Spring ’26
Of everything I did these past few weeks, this brought me the most joy—and it started with nothing more than stepping outside.
I needed air. The warm spring sun hit my face with a cool breeze behind it, and for a moment the pain didn't matter. I walked over to the peach tree I planted over fifteen years ago. The blossoms were out—bright, almost absurdly pink against the blue sky. I stood there looking at them, and took a picture. I didn't know yet what I was going to do with it.
But slowly, inspiration struck. I started gathering flowers from every fruiting tree in the yard—peach, grapefruit, plum, tangerine, lemon, pomegranate. Then leaves, grasses, mosses, small rocks, twigs. My yard was full of materials I'd walked past a thousand times without seeing.
I grabbed some foam board left over from the foamboard RC trainer and a hot glue gun, and crafted a makeshift mold. I had no idea whether my shoddy craftsmanship would hold liquid epoxy—but I was committed. I've never worked with epoxy before. I had no plan. I just had flowers, resin, and a feeling that this was worth trying.
I arranged the flowers in the box until I had something I liked—a small garden, frozen mid-bloom.
I called my super-crafty sister-in-law for color advice. She suggested pink, yellow, and gold flakes. The Eastery palette felt exactly right. I took the box outside and began pouring, one cup at a time.
The Pour
Pink colorant and gold flakes first. Then yellow. Then wisps of black—my attempt at spring rain clouds drifting through. More flake. Layers of clear in between. Each pour changed the piece in ways I couldn't fully predict, and I liked that. It felt less like building and more like collaborating with the material.
I had just enough epoxy to cover the flowers, with one star flower still poking above the surface—which I loved. It gives the piece depth, a reminder that not everything has to be perfectly contained. I coated the exposed bloom a few extra times, then left it all to cure overnight.
Getting It Out
Nobody tells you how hard it is to demold a piece of cured epoxy from a foam board box you glued together with hope. But eventually I got it out, sanded the edges smooth, and drilled some holes in the back for LEDs and resistors—future-proofing for illumination later. One project seeding the next.
Finding a Frame
I haven't typically thought of myself as a Michael's guy—never mind one who enjoys the trip—but there I was, wandering the aisles with a sense of wonder. It was the only place I could think of that might have a frame to fit. They did. I will absolutely go back.
After some fussing and fitting, it was in. And I was proud. Not the kind of proud where you want people to notice—the kind where you don't care if they do. I made something that didn't exist before, from flowers I grew, in a yard I've tended for years, during a stretch of time when my body was telling me to do nothing. I did something anyway.
I hung it above my monitor. Added a hanging plant beside it. Now every time I sit down to work, spring is right there—even when it's not.
If you're dealing with pain, illness, or anything that's slowing you down—I want you to know: the small things aren't small. A print that finishes overnight. A walk to a tree you planted years ago. Flowers you never thought to pick. These things carry more weight than they appear to, because they're proof that you're still here, still curious, still making.
You don't have to move fast. You don't have to finish. You just have to start something—even slowly—and let the act of making carry you somewhere the pain can't follow.