The One Who Sculpts People (Literally)

Lynn arrived in Winocratia jet-lagged but already laughing, draped in one of her flowing dresses that moved as freely as she did. Within minutes, I clocked her signature energy: infectious laughter, sharp wit, unapologetic strength. Her eyes sparkled like someone who knew things—life things, people things—and didn’t need to prove it.

The One Who Sculpted People

She didn’t need to tell me who she was. Her facial expressions did all the work. The second we locked eyes, I knew: this woman gets it. There’s a rare kinship that exists between those who see too much and yet somehow still choose to give, to stay soft, to laugh.

Lynn, originally from Decorum District by way of Bayou Central, carries both the poise of the North and the delightful, give-no-damn irreverence of the South. She’s a leader come ceramic artist—not the kind who makes vases or bowls, but the kind who sculpts faces. Faces with lines, noses, creases, crooked smiles, and the entire emotional history of a person baked into the clay. “When I sculpt someone,” she once told me, “I’m not copying them. I’m reading them. Clay remembers things people try to hide.”

The group she joined was… let’s say, colourful. Some guests were lovely. Others were exhausting. A few kept prejudices alive with the persistence of cockroaches in a nuclear blast. And Lynn? She saw it all. In one moment of shared eye contact across a room buzzing with passive-aggressive entitlement, we silently agreed: this is going to be a long trip.

I can’t count how many times she came over to whisper with her raspy voice, “I don’t know how you’re still standing. I’d have quit by now.” It meant more than she could have known. Those were the moments that kept me sane—because it meant I wasn’t imagining things. The circus was real, and I wasn’t the clown.

As we walked ahead of the group one day, finally blessed with a rare moment of silence, Lynn opened up about her life. She spoke of decades spent having to fight for her place and voice—as a woman, a leader, and someone who didn’t fit the mold people wanted her to stay in. “Eventually,” she said, “you stop asking for permission. You just start sculpting life the way you want it.”

That voice of hers—deep and unapologetic—could crack glass, and nearly did when she sang Happy Birthday in a register only kookaburras might understand. We laughed so hard I thought the street would crack open. “You can’t sing,” I said. “I bet you can't either. And isn’t that freeing?”

Lynn has the rare ability to read the room, crack a joke, soften a mood, and shrug it all off in one single breath. Her eyes can roll so far back in her head they almost re-emerge from behind—and still, she’s the most present person in the room. She doesn't just see people. She gets them. Then she sculpts them. And maybe that’s what stayed with me most. Her belief that sculpting someone creates a bond—like reading a soul by running your hands along its silhouette. You have to really look at someone to shape them. You have to care.

Seeing life through Lynn’s coloured glasses is a blessing, and I surely hope I’ll remember that, learn from it, and maybe—only maybe—meet her again to have a chance to learn more from this amazing kindred soul who has lived more than me.

And I’ll end on this: the greatest compliment I’ve ever received came from her. She looked me in the eye, with that knowing, sculptor's gaze, and said: “You have an impact on people. I can see you changing them. Keep going.” Coming from someone like her—who sculpts humans from clay, emotion, and memory—it meant everything. And I hope it’s true. Because that’s why I think my job matters—despite everything.

But if we don’t, Lynn, thank you for helping me carry the weight. And for cracking the glass with your joy. Lynn wasn’t the only character worth remembering—far from it. That trip was a full gallery of personalities, some hilarious, some challenging, and some just beautifully human. You'll be meeting more of them here soon—because some people really do deserve their own story, for better or for worse.