How Making a Ring at Dartmouth’s Jewelry Studio Helped Me Let Go of Perfectionism

Donald Claflin Jewelry Studio, Hanover, New Hampshire, U.S., 2024

During my three-month exchange term at Dartmouth in the fall, I started noticing people wearing handmade-looking rings. When I complimented them, they’d casually say, “Oh, I made it at the jewelry studio.” I added it to my mental bucket list… and promptly forgot about it.

That is, until the final week of term, when my friend Anna showed me a beautiful gemstone ring she’d crafted herself. She urged me to go, so on the very last day the studio was open, I finally did.

Officially, you were meant to book one of seven coveted slots (always full), but rumour had it you could still pop by. So I did. I took the elevator up the clean, bright, art-gallery-like interior of the Hopkins Center for the Arts and followed the signs until I found it: the Donald Claflin Jewelry Studio.

The space was alive with quiet concentration. A few students hovered at their benches, using tools I didn’t recognize, tiny machines whirring and buzzing with purpose. I was met with warmth—no side-eye for being a last-minute drop-in. They let me join.

The first step: finding my ring size. I fumbled with the plastic keychain of sizing rings, then watched as one of the student helpers measured and cut a strip of silver just for me. A guy next to me was also starting from scratch. We both began by practicing on scrap metal, stamping random shapes into pinky-length gold-colored strips.

I rummaged through the stamp cupboard filled with boxes and boxes of different stamps, unsure what I wanted to etch. A butterfly stamp caught my eye. Then a maple tree. Letters? Gemstones? The possibilities were endless—and suddenly, the tiny decisions felt enormous, like I was designing not just a ring, but a personal relic. A legacy. (Okay, dramatic, but still—I wanted it to be just right.)

I’d come in with no plan, but now I suddenly needed it to be perfect. I found a ring someone else had made—a simple band with just a few shapes and letters—and used it as my guide.

After about twenty minutes of pretending to “practice,” I told myself I was “as ready as one could ever be in twenty minutes” (which is to say: not really). I lined up the stamps and, one by one, hammered them into the silver, whispering quiet prayers that they’d land straight.

First one: good.

Second one: good.

Okay, maybe this wasn’t so hard after all.

Third one… crooked.

Of course.

I nervously confided in the student helper, and she shrugged, smiling:

“If I do it for you, it won’t really be yours, will it?”

Touché.

I could feel myself getting impatient. My hands were shaky, my perfectionism flaring. I had to remind myself: this wasn’t a performance. I wasn’t here to impress anyone, I was here to try something new. To have fun. To make a memory.

It wasn’t easy letting go of the pressure. But slowly, my mindset shifted. I let the ring be imperfect. Wobbly letters and all. 

No matter how the ring turned out, it would be mine, I told myself. The memory would be what was special.

After the stamping, I used pliers to bend the strip into a ring shape, trying to make the ends meet. My attempts were... let’s say enthusiastic. Eventually, the student helper stepped in with gentle efficiency.

Then came the soldering: a tiny torch sealed the ends together. I slipped the ring onto a long steel mandrel and hammered it into a perfect circle. Step five: filing and sanding the joint and edges, smoothing away the rawness of beginner work.

But when I slid it onto my index finger, my stomach dropped. It was too big. Too big. After all that effort.

I tried every finger. Nothing quite worked. “It’s too big!” I groaned to my roommate who’d recently also arrived, flicking it off dramatically. I turned back to the student helper in defeat. She barely blinked:

“Pass it here.”

She took it to another machine—something that looked like a cross between a tiny anvil and that arcade game where you whack the moles—and did some kind of resizing wizardry. Moments later, it fit. Perfectly.

Crisis averted.

My final creation? A silver ring with my initials and a few decorative stamps on the outside. On the inside, “Dartmouth 24” and a tiny pine tree. It cost just $8USD—materials only.

Stella's ring, Hanover, New Hampshire, U.S., 2024

Nearby, another girl was finishing a necklace she’d spent eight hours on: two interlocked hearts she’d hand-cut for her mum. The guy who started next to me had been making his ring for his girlfriend. And there I was, making something just for myself. It hit me: was that selfish?

I suddenly wished there’d been more time. I would’ve made one for my mum. My sister. My best friend. I knew they’d love a piece like this—not just the final product, but the effort, the thought, the craftsmanship (even if mine was a little... wonky).

I thought about how childlike the whole activity felt. As adults, we rarely let ourselves make things like this. The ring looked a little childlike too—with its imperfect, slightly tilted letters (quirky charm, let’s call it). But it didn’t matter.

More exchange students—my friends—trickled in last-minute. The space got a bit chaotic. The staff managed the growing group with impressive calm, and the clutter only made it feel more alive. They “ooed” and “aahed” as I lifted my hand with joy.

Now, back home in New Zealand, I smile warmly as I look at the ring on my finger. The ring matters, but more so what it embodies—the memory of my Dartmouth exchange and the wonderful experiences I had there. I know it has flaws, but I don’t really notice them anymore. It reminds me that not everything needs to be perfect to be precious.