Sophie Wilksch – Shedding Community Workshop

Over the years I have reflected on my teaching experience and often say that I learnt to teach by teaching. My teaching practices have been deeply informed by my own challenges in learning, and by the people who have inspired and supported me every step of the way. Along that path I have encountered many hurdles—each one teaching me about boundaries and self-care so that I can bring my best self to my students.

When I trace my teaching story back to its beginnings, I remember my architecture degree. Despite gaining a theoretical understanding of how buildings were designed, I realised I didn’t truly understand the practice of building. I learnt by doing—getting on the tools and building things myself. Along the way I was supported by generous mentors and peers.

During this time I also became curious about language, stereotypes, and teaching practices. I noticed that my own fears and anxiety could easily block my path to learning and success.

Over many years working on building sites, I became increasingly aware of how people communicate. This curiosity led me to study compassionate communication and authentic relating, where I discovered the power of intention, language, listening, and self-awareness.

When I met Patt, I discovered a whole new style of teaching, and I was overjoyed. Patt’s teaching practices, combined with my own experiences, became the foundation upon which I created Shedding Community Workshop. Since then my teaching practices have continued to evolve, adapting and responding to every student who walks through the door.

Like many people, I began teaching without formal training. Through experience I discovered the importance of preparation, presence, and reflection. After every workshop I would reflect on what had happened—exploring successes, challenges, and opportunities for growth—with compassion and support.

Alongside my mentors, my students have become my greatest teachers. I use tools and practices that help bring me into presence so I can listen deeply to what students need and respond with care.

Learning to build is one of my greatest passions, surpassed only by the joy I feel when I share that experience with others. Watching someone drop into a state of creative flow while working with their hands is a feeling like no other.

It is something I wish to share with the world.

At Shedding Community Workshop, we hold to a simple motto:
Shed your fears and build with curiosity.

Katie Stafford – Girl & Grain
Cabinet maker, Sydney N.S.W.

My foray into teaching was born out of necessity. We had just emerged from Covid lockdowns, and
I needed to diversify my custom furniture business in some way to recover income lost during a
tough year. I know—it doesn’t sound very inspiring! But little did I know what lay ahead.

At the time, I didn’t see myself as a teacher, a leader, or even someone confident enough to speak in
front of a group—let alone guide one. But I decided to be brave. I threw myself in, work boots and
all.

I remember my first class vividly. I dived in at the deep end with a full weekend class of four
women making bedside tables. Ambitious, to say the least. But we got through it. Each student took
home a finished piece, full of pride and fresh knowledge. They had learned new skills, met like-
minded people, shared stories around a common workbench—and left with that rare kind of uplift
that only comes from making something with your own hands.

And as their teacher, I felt it too. Running that class shifted something. Suddenly my solitary
workshop was filled with people from all walks of life. I wasn’t just teaching woodwork—I was
building community. Sharing my skills. Feeling connected. It was bigger than me.

Five years on, I still love teaching. I’ve learned so much in that time and continue to learn with
every class. I’ve developed my own teaching style and I bring my full personality into the space.
I’m not afraid to show my students the complete woodworking dork that I am.

Where I once felt nervous, I now look forward to meeting new students and hearing what brings
them to the workshop. I encourage them to share and to ask every question. My workshop is a safe
place to learn. There is no such thing as a silly question—and most of all, they’re in safe hands.
Safety is always my priority.

If a student needs me to demonstrate a power tool five times before they feel confident enough to try
it themselves, that’s exactly what we’ll do.

Over time, I’ve learned how to quietly acknowledge the dominant extrovert while making sure the
quieter student still feels seen. I know that the perfectionist in the group is often the one most likely
to freeze when something goes wrong with their work—and I’ve learned how to coach them gently
back into motion.

I’ve also come to understand the deep conditioning many women carry: to apologise, to stay small,
and not to be an inconvenience. We work on this in every class. One of the hardest things to get
women to do? Brush sawdust onto the floor. Instead, I often find perfectly neat little mounds of
sawdust lined up along the bench. We learn that mess is okay—and that you’re allowed to be the
one who made it.

I’ve heard countless stories of women asking a partner to teach them how to use a tool, only to have
the task taken over and the opportunity to learn taken away.

And I’ve had the absolute privilege of women sharing deeply personal stories during class—
sometimes through laughter, sometimes through tears. In those moments I see clearly that these
workshops have become something far more enriching and meaningful than I ever imagined.
They’re no longer just woodworking classes.

They’re places of joy, learning, connection, and empowerment.

And what a beautiful thing to be part of.

Sarah Odgers – Chip Off the Old Block Sanctuary
Sunshine Coast, Queensland

Whenever I sit down to write something, no matter how good or bad it might be, I just need to start
and see where it goes. That’s exactly how I felt writing this—and it’s exactly how I felt when I
started my journey into woodwork.

I first began because I was helping an older gentleman who couldn’t drive get to his local
woodwork club so he could stay connected with his community. Since I was there anyway, I
thought I might as well give it a go.

A man named Frank put a chisel in my hand, stood me in front of a lathe with a chunk of wood
spinning on it, and started explaining how to turn it into a bowl. I was terrified. I had never seen
anything move as fast as that piece of wood was spinning, and I was about to shove a sharp piece of
metal into it. I honestly thought there was no way I would walk away unharmed.

Fortunately, I wasn’t harmed… at least not that day.

Frank made sure of that. He became my first mentor and helped me believe I could do almost
anything related to woodwork. To be fair, I’ve had the occasional minor injury since then—nothing
serious enough to require a doctor—but a few moments have definitely been scary enough to teach
me the importance of good procedure and safety.

It was several years before I stepped into teaching in any official way. During a sabbatical from my
day job, I started thinking about the number of enquiries I was receiving through the woodworking
club’s social media page I had created for them. People wanted to learn.

I realised there was a gap in the market and began wondering whether I had what it would take to
fill it.

So I jumped in the deep end.

There was no one I could ask for advice, and I couldn’t find anyone doing something similar at the
time. I built a shed, registered a business name, opened a bank account, and started advertising.
Just weeks before my first classes began, pure luck stepped in. An unexpected connection led to a
radio interview, which took my first term from six students to twenty-five. Only seventeen actually
showed up—but I was thrilled with seventeen. At the time it simply felt like a fun hobby where I
could share my skills with enthusiastic young people.

What I didn’t realise was just how much I still had to learn.

I was teaching children as young as five. Up until that point I had mainly used machines in
woodwork. Suddenly I needed to teach hand sawing, hammering and other basic skills. I had mostly
relied on glue in my own work, but young people have very little patience for glue to dry.
I quickly learned that for children the process matters far more than the finished result. Where I
wanted to slow down and create a perfect finished piece, they simply wanted something they could
take home and proudly show off.

I had to pivot constantly.

Often I felt like I was drowning. Fortunately, I had the support of my father, a retired carpenter,
along with a club full of talented woodworkers who were always willing to help when I needed
advice.

Meanwhile the number of students kept growing.

In my first term I had 17 students.
The second term brought 34.
By the third term there were 65.
And by the fourth term I had a staggering 120 students.

I was completely in over my head.

I was still learning, still making mistakes, and still feeling as though I had no idea what I was doing
most days. I tried hiring staff to help, but eventually realised that staffing was actually hurting the
business. Not because anyone did anything wrong, but because it took away the personal connection
that had made the classes special in the first place.

I had simply grown too fast.

At times I seriously considered giving it all up. I worked myself into burnout trying to keep
everyone happy. It was impossible.

Then something unexpected happened.

Parents began offering to help. Some assisted with bookkeeping, others helped with advertising,
shopping, and general odd jobs. Around the same time I connected with Patt on Facebook and
finally had someone who understood, at least in part, what this strange little adventure of mine
involved.

And then the feedback began.

Parents told me their children’s school grades were improving. One parent said their child was
finally coming out of depression and beginning to reconnect with the world. Some children who had
once been painfully shy were becoming confident and outspoken.

Once parents pointed it out, I began to see it clearly myself.

Occupational therapists were recommending my classes. Families were hearing about them through
word of mouth from people I had never even met. One day I received an email from a man in
Newcastle asking for advice about setting up something similar. Not long after that, an American
school teacher contacted me wanting to know how I had built my program.

That Zoom call was surreal.

The truth was—I had no plan. None whatsoever. I had simply figured things out as I went along.
When he asked how I had done it, I told him exactly that.

There didn’t seem much point pretending otherwise.

I’ve been incredibly fortunate in another way as well. Many women working in male-dominated
trades struggle to be taken seriously. That hasn’t been my experience. From the beginning I was
welcomed, respected and supported. I’ve had plenty of dads ask me for advice, but never once has
anyone questioned my ability because of my gender.

Looking back now, I realise I built something from nothing but an idea.

A little over four years later, it has grown into something far bigger than I ever imagined.
I called my business Chip Off the Old Block Sanctuary very deliberately. I wanted the workshop
to be a safe place for learning and growth, where mistakes aren’t criticised but often celebrated—
because mistakes mean learning.

Over the years I’ve taught many students, but I’ve also learned just as much from them.

They challenge everything.

They constantly make me rethink what I know, how I teach, and why I do things the way I do.
Because of them, every class now begins with two simple mottos:

The only wrong way to do something is the unsafe way.
Mistakes are proof that you are trying.

In the early days I structured classes so everyone built the same project, much like school. Groups
were small, usually four to six students. They followed a set plan, and although the group could
vote on which project came next, there wasn’t much room for creativity.

Eventually even I began to dread the classes. They were predictable and uninspiring.

So one day I scrapped the plan.

Suddenly students were designing their own projects. That created an entirely new set of challenges
for me, but it also changed everything.

Now students regularly ask if they can build some wildly ambitious idea, and I’m still pivoting
constantly to help them make it happen. But when someone finishes something that truly matters to
them, the joy on their face is unforgettable.

It’s worth every challenge.

Teaching this way has forced me to learn new techniques constantly—sometimes teaching them
before I’ve even had the chance to try them myself.

Looking back, diving into something I had no idea how to do turned out to be the biggest leap of
faith I’ve ever taken.

And I would absolutely recommend it.

Just try.

The worst that can happen is that you lose some time and money. But even then, the time won’t
really be wasted because you’ll be learning the whole way through.

It’s tiring. It’s hard work.

But it is also the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done.

Every challenge along the way has been worth it for the extraordinary things that have come from
it.

So if you’re thinking about trying something new in woodwork, no matter how experienced you are
—take the leap.

Choose the safe way, of course.

But most of all, find the fun in it.

Marcia Starr – Teaching Journey.
Mullumbimby, Northern N.S.W.

The seed of my journey into woodwork was planted by my mother, Audrey, a practising visual
artist.

Around 1973 she enrolled in an adult education TAFE carpentry course because she wanted to be
able to fix things around the house. By the end of the course, among other items, she brought home
a sleek coffee table and a beautiful wooden step ladder, which I now possess. Little did she realise
that she had inspired me and opened a portal.

Around the same time, my brothers were replacing the floorboards and joists on our front verandah.
I would come home from high school and join them, and they taught me to saw, straighten decking
boards, drill, and nail. I would often continue working alone into the evening.

After high school I went to art college for three years, where I majored in painting. When I finished,
I joined my brothers on their house renovation team, fixing up and adding extensions to old
Queensland houses.

In the early 1990s I completed a TAFE teaching course—one that was far from in-depth or
comprehensive—so that I could teach a Life Skills module on a government program for long-term
unemployed youth.

The first classes I taught involved making items of the students’ choice: coffee tables, swords, boxes
and simple shelves. I had the freedom to design the direction and structure of the classes, which
were held in a makeshift workshop in Girraween National Park. The aim of the course was to help
the students build self-esteem as they learnt skills that might inspire them to continue their
education.

The classes were considered successful by the course supervisor because the students were
enthusiastic and engaged, especially the young women. That first experience of teaching felt natural
to me. It was somehow connected to genuinely liking the students and seeing each individual as
having a unique perspective. I felt I could be an ally to each of them, which nurtured trust and
enthusiasm between us. Giving them the freedom to design and build their own projects seemed to
inspire them.

In the second program I was given a blueprint for a National Parks hardwood picnic table. Using
mostly hand tools—apart from a drill—the students produced a beautiful, strong picnic table.
Witnessing their glowing pride at having made such an impressive and functional table for public
use was a joy.

Those early teaching experiences worked in part because the classes were held in the workshop
attached to the house where we were living in Girraween National Park. The atmosphere was
relaxed and informal, unlike a formal TAFE workshop with its layers of compliance and official
protocol. That kind of environment can easily trigger shutdown for some students who react
strongly to institutions. I suspect I would also have felt less confident under those conditions.

In later years I was asked to participate in a program called Tradeswomen on the Move. It was
designed for girls in early high school. Women working in non-traditional trades travelled around
schools in south-east Queensland to talk with girls about our work and demonstrate our skills,
hoping to inspire them to consider careers in these areas.

I would bring sawhorses and some basic tools and demonstrate sawing, drilling and nailing while
talking about my experiences working as a woodworker. The girls would have a brief chance to try
the tools themselves. Some of them definitely had a sparkle in their eyes, glimpsing a new horizon
for themselves.

After twenty years of raising three daughters, working on building sites, running community arts
programs, painting houses, teaching mosaic and woodwork in schools, and creating solo art
exhibitions, another opportunity emerged.

In 2012 I was volunteering at Shearwater School in the high school workshop. My daughter Rosey
had just enrolled there, and I wanted to be involved in the school community. The following year, as
a result of those interactions, I became the primary school woodwork teacher.

Working closely with the head of school at the time, Greg Parkes, I began ordering high-quality
hand tools so I could teach classes of twenty-five to thirty children at a time. The idea was that they
would work in pairs or groups of three, depending on the class size.

A large open shed was converted into the primary school woodwork workshop. A concrete slab was
laid, a storage room built, and six low, heavy workbenches with vices installed.

Each class attended woodwork in a three-week block, from after lunch until the end of the school
day. This allowed us to immerse ourselves in meaningful projects.

The class teacher and I would discuss ideas and age-appropriate projects. I organised materials and
machined certain components beforehand when necessary. During the lessons I would present and
demonstrate the work, while the class teacher assisted and helped keep the class settled.

It was a blessing to have the opportunity to design the teaching system from the ground up.

The children would arrive and sit together on bench seats while I welcomed them to the workshop
and introduced the project for the day. Each workbench was prepared with the tools, timber and
hardware needed for the lesson. At the end, everything was returned to two trolleys—one for tools
and one for the children’s named workpieces.

When demonstrating, I would emphasise how to stand and how the body feels when you hold a tool
correctly. Feeling the strength travel up through the body into the arms and hands helped students
develop a firm and conscious grip. This seemed especially helpful for the girls.

Measuring and marking required careful explanation. Using a tri-square, for example, meant
learning how the handle hugs the edge of the wood while the blade slides up to the pencil mark. It’s
surprising how much thought goes into using a square properly when you’re just beginning.

We would draw a clean line across the wood for the cut. Measuring itself is intricate. I would show
the children how to mark a point by touching the exact spot on the ruler with the pencil and drawing
a small line to the left, then touching the spot again and drawing a line to the right to form a tiny
arrow. The point of the arrow is where the cutting line begins.

I would then demonstrate sawing slowly—starting with an assertive push so that the tip of the saw
just kissed the outer edge of the pencil line. Then we would check that the back of the saw would
land on the same line so the cut stayed straight. We used cutting boxes at first so students could
focus on the motion without worrying about keeping the saw vertical.

Breaking these processes down felt a little like solving a mystery together. The children were
usually bursting to begin their work.

Some wanted to rush through as quickly as possible, sacrificing accuracy. When that happened I
would pause the class and ask whether it felt more satisfying to cut the wood quickly with a crooked
result, or slowly and carefully with a clean, straight cut. Most of the time that helped slow the
impatient ones down.

Many children became so enthusiastic that they begged to work during their lunch breaks. Others
would chase me around the school asking when it would be their turn to do woodwork.

Whenever possible I made sure the children were competent in every task except machining.
Sometimes I would take them to the high school workshop to show them how certain parts were cut
on the band saw.

On occasions we used recycled hardwood filled with old nails and screws. We built simple
sawhorses and learnt how to de-nail the boards while discussing leverage. It was remarkable how
quickly a class of Year 3 students could process a large pile of old timber.

Over time I realised that, while woodwork was the subject of the class, the deeper work was always
with the children themselves. When I moved around the room helping each student individually, the
real task was to encourage them—to notice the smallest improvement and celebrate it.

Woodwork became a doorway into their confidence. Children who struggled in conventional
classrooms often shone in the workshop. They received recognition there that they might never
have experienced elsewhere.

My favourite moment in the teaching cycle often came during the final lesson or two. I would set
out piles of offcuts in many shapes and sizes, along with glue, nails and other fasteners. The
instruction was simple: make whatever you want.

What followed was always wonderful to watch.

The children had spent weeks learning careful techniques and tool use. Now they were free to
experiment. Wagons, aeroplanes, wonky shelves, dollhouses, gardens, boxes and animals began to
appear. The room filled with energy and invention.

There was always a mad flurry at the end of the session—reluctance to stop, pleas for just a few
more minutes. Sometimes I would quietly put the tools away myself so they could keep working a
little longer.

Watching that enthusiasm unfold made my heart glow.